About Last Night
by xXBeckyFoo
Summary: Draco Malfoy has been one of Britain's most eligible bachelors (wild party boy, would be the better title) for years, and he has no immediate plans of changing that. Except, as it is in her tendencies to ruin his life, Hermione Granger knocks him out of the list by becoming his wife after a hazy one night stand.
1. Aftermath

**About Last Night**

He was a piece of shit and he knew it. There. No bullshit. All truth. Draco Malfoy would break anything he touched if he so wanted to without the slightest chance of remorse after.

If this was a worldwide conception, then why were people constantly surprised at how far he would go or how detached he could become? It was in the name itself. _Malfoy_ : famous for being careless, for breathtaking arrogance, and extreme self-preservation.

So, really, the crying witch that was currently hurling random objects at him should have known what she was getting herself into when she decided it was a brilliant move to leave the club with Draco. He never gave her promises of something more than incredible sex when he was tearing off her clothes last night. She could not blame him, then, for asking her to leave his flat when the first rays of sun poured in through his crystal-clear windows.

"You complete areshole!" she screeched after throwing a very ugly and tacky vase Pansy Parkinson had given him during another one of their dating stints (that last only two weeks and went down as one of the stupidest things he had ever done). "I've never been so degraded in my life! You will regret this!"

Even if he was the worst of the worst, Draco would not tolerate false accusations. He never degraded what's-her-face in the length of their one night rendezvous. He gave her a safe word, asked permission before bringing out the big guns, and not to mention _she_ taught him one or two filthy moves. As well, he had graciously ordered his house-elf Delta to make her breakfast before her departure. He was being more than a good host, but now he had enough. Legally speaking, it was his private property and she was intruding. So when he Floo Called the Department of Magical Law Enforcement to remove the girl, he walked back to his bedroom without sparing the hysterical witch another look while she vowed revenge.

He went to his lavish room to open his closet and browse through his fine wardrobe. After pulling out a sleek black suit and a grey button-up, all very well-fitted to his toned body, Draco had his morning shave before making certain his blond hair was perfectly disheveled. Even if he was not more than perfectly aware that he was incredibly handsome regardless of how he dressed, he still had a reputation to uphold. The media and public constantly dubbed him one of Britain's five most eligible bachelors ( _'only if someone could tame his wild heart,'_ the magazines would say). Not that Draco particularly cared about his rank (he had been in second place for three years now), but with Saint Potter in the lead and the Weasel in third, it was a matter of principle for Draco to continue to uphold his status.

When he left his bedroom to have a spot of breakfast Delta kindly prepared, Draco found that he still had company despite the forceful departure of his last conquest.

"The Auror Department does not exist to escort your one night stands from your home, Malfoy," said Blaise Zabini in an authoritative tone despite being sat at the kitchen table eating a large waffle topped with all his favorites. Delta finished pouring him tea and Blaise smiled politely at her before returning his annoyance at Draco. "This is the fourth time this year. You're going to get me sacked."

"Not like you need the employment, Blaise," scoffed Draco as he took a seat. Delta was quick to serve her master. "Being an Auror is technically your hobby. Five years later and I am still confused as to why you can't spend your time being the playboy we all very much miss."

"First off, you and Nott are more than capable of fucking up your own lives without needing me to join you," said Blaise. "Secondly, being an Auror is not a hobby, you wanker. It's my career—just as being a notorious areshole is yours."

Draco grinned. "Sweet talking me still won't make me accept the fact that you're a Ministry tosser. As your best mate I am obligated to tear the mickey as often as possible. And assure that you rid my flat of clingy women."

"Jenna is actually a great girl, you know."

"Who?" asked Draco as he dug into his breakfast.

"The witch you just had my partner arrest."

"Oh. That was her name?" Draco laughed.

"Yes. And she happens to be Flint Sr.'s favorite niece," Blaise continued. "He is very protective of her seeing as he has no daughters of his own. Marcus has even let on that his father has offed a bloke for breaking her heart. If word gets out of what you just did to her your carefree life is about to get complicated. Or, in the bright side, he'll just have you murdered."

With one more bite of his food, Draco stood from his chair after glancing at the sleek watch on his wrist. "It's a good thing my best mate is an Auror, right?"

Blaise snorted.

"Come on. I need to make a stop at the Ministry before going to the office."

"Why the hell do you need me for?"

"As you mentioned, you're an Auror. Your job is to serve and protect." Draco buttoned his cuff links. "And Salazar knows the paparazzi outside the Ministry will flood me."

Blaise rolled his eyes, but stood up regardless. "Not to worry, mate. Your head's too big to fit the front page."

 **X**

There was a loud pounding in his head. The noise clung onto the walls of his skull, sinking its nonexistent claws in, tearing apart the bone, to push the stinging into his cells. That was how best Draco could describe the gripping headache he was feeling. Hangovers were hardly a bitter end to his wild nights, but now it seemed to be settling in. It was a clear indication that whatever he did the previous evening was reckless, sweaty, illicit, and incredible.

When he rolled onto his back, Draco discovered that the pounding he was hearing was not only in his head, but it was also coming from the entrance door of his flat. Someone was knocking inconsiderately loud for someone who was nursing the aftermath of a lot of alcohol and poor life choices.

By the time whoever was visiting touched their knuckles to the door, Delta would have opened and determined if the person was on her master's list of allowed-in-without-an-explanation. Seeing, however, that the Wizardying World's very own righteous Hermione Granger campaigned for House-Elf Suffrage—and that no one would deny her and the holy Light Side anything, them being heroes and all—Draco was legally bound to give Delta weekends off to do whatever the hell house-elves did with their spare time, leaving him without anyone to serve him. He would just let whoever was knocking tire out and leave, but the knocking was making his headache worse. And he was too far from his wand to magick the noise out and he had a terrible case of cotton-mouth to scream for them to fuck off.

He opened his eyes and the crisp sunlight flooded his eyes. A groan escaped his throat. As he adjusted his sight, he caught discarded clothes on his bedroom floor. There was a red pump by the door, its pair by the closest, giving Draco evidence that he must have thrown those things right off after round one. There was something about those heels, though; he had a momentary flash of the previous night, seeing them on shapely legs, walking away from him.

He sat up, pulling the tangled sheets off his body. The naked woman beside him rolled onto her stomach, facing away from him. Draco stared at her bare back. She had a map of freckles on her skin, but what caught his attention was the scatter of scars that told a story he wondered if he'd heard the night before. He was tempted to run his fingertips on them, but the knocking continued.

He grumbled a curse word as he grabbed yesterday's trousers and slipped them on. When he made it to the door, he barely had turned the knob when he was pushed back and his flat was invaded.

"What the actual fuck?" Draco barked at the dark-haired witch stomping very loudly.

"Where is she?" demanded Pansy as she turned into the living room.

Draco cursed louder. Where was his wand? He had no problem at all hexing Pansy back to the moment she thought paying him a visit was a good idea. He looked at the hall that led to the kitchen, wanting to go in for a glass of water and a Sobering Potion, but instead grunted on his way to his sitting room. He found Pansy overturning his furniture.

"What are you doing, Pansy?"

"Looking for her!"

"Don't you think your whole jealousy act is getting bloody old?" She turned to him with an offended expression while her fingers gripped a red, lacy bra. "It's why we broke up, remember? You are the world's clingiest woman. Now, that might work for Weasel because the only thing that circles him are the flies and he needs to feel desired, I suppose, but I'm not flattered."

Pansy took one slow, calculating step to Draco. The lethal glint in her blue eyes could scare anyone, but it did not scare him. She knew that, too. But it was in a venomous woman's nature (for lack of a less refined word) to expose her fangs. "First of all, do not insult my fiance. Do you even know what I had to do to ensure that I ended up with Ron? I almost left Lavender Brown blind as a warning for all those other groupies."

"Groupies," Draco scoffed.

"Secondly, _I_ broke up with _you_."

"You did not!"

"You are the last man on Earth I would ever be with. I rather end up with brainless Goyle, Draco. And he's as interesting as a teaspoon. So get the idea of me being a scorned lover out of your head." She held up the bra, waving it to get Draco's attention as he rolled his eyes. "Just tell me where she is. She didn't show up to breakfast and I just know you did something to her."

"Who the hell are you talking about?"

"Hermione!"

"Who?" he asked, plopping himself on his couch. He shifted, pulling out a gold, embroidered clutch. He opened it and found an identification tag. "No," he gasped, his silver eyes popping out of his sockets when Granger's face peered up at him.

Pansy narrowed her eyes at him, confused, but then she stopped paying attention to Draco when footsteps were heard on the shiny, wood flooring. "There you are!"

Draco looked away from the brown eyes on the tag to find the real version glancing back at him. There, in all her naked glory, stood Hermione Granger.

Pansy grabbed the matching panties from the set that were tucked in the crook of Draco's couch. She hastily made her way over to Granger, handing her the undergarments. Granger seemed unabashed by her state with Pansy. On the contrary, she smiled and properly thanked her.

"You didn't have to come all this way, Pansy," Granger said with a silky tone that made Draco's skin run cold. His mind flooded with a series of flashbacks of the night before, all with the sound of her voice calling out for him in waves of ecstasy.

"Trust me, I did," assured Pansy. "Ron and Harry started asking for you when you didn't show up to breakfast at the Burrow and I knew I had to come and find you before they sent out a search party. You wouldn't want them to find you in this state, would you? Especially not with _him_."

Granger finished putting on her bra and walked closer to Draco. He wanted to push himself further into his couch, to be devoured by it so he didn't have to face the reality of what had obviously transpired between them.

"Actually," she begun, "Harry and Ron are going to find out eventually."

"Your lack of judgment when you're piss drunk should remain with yourself and your mistakes," said Pansy. "You don't need to publicize it, regardless of them being your best friends. Everyone's allowed a secret once in awhile."

"Well, this one can't be hidden," Granger refuted.

Just when Draco did not think things could possibly get worse, Granger raised her hand and the sunlight of the room reflected off a diamond ring on her finger.


	2. Baby Potential

Draco was smirking from ear to ear when he finally made it inside the Ministry of Magic with Blaise huffing behind him. His friend was cursing the circus of journalists and photographers that huddled outside of the building waiting for any opportunity to catch a person of interest.

Blaise himself had been hounded by the media when the war had ended and his trial was broadcast nationwide (as compared to the other _boring_ Death Eater convictions happening left and right). The media could not get enough of the boy whose mother had been charged and then pardoned for the murder of five Pureblood men, three of which had been known Death Eaters. Two of those murders Blaise had been present for, making him the main witness called to stand before the Wizengamot. The public speculated for weeks if Blaise would betray his mother by revealing the truth of her crime or remain loyal. Of course, when the trial came, he lied about the circumstances in which his mother had committed five accounts of murder; he claimed they had all been in self-defense, seeing as they were Blood Traitors after Mrs. Zabini forced them into hiding when the Dark Lord had demanded for her only son to be given to his cause. What the public had deemed a downright lie ended up pardoning Mrs. Zabini, but only a handful close to the Zabinis knew the truth—to an extent, of course. Blaise had been put into hiding, Mrs. Zabini had killed three Death Eaters to protect her son, but the other two victims had been murdered for the wealth their wife would inherit after their passing. Blaise never spoke of his time in solitude while the war raged above ground, and Draco never asked. After all, there were horrors from both ends that were better kept a secret.

From what he kept to himself stemmed Blaise's idea of joining the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. When Draco and Theodore Nott laughed at the absurdity, assuming it had been a joke told over drinks (because they were in full-swing of their rebellion), all Blaise had said of the matter was that he'd finally be paying his dues. None of his friends expected the spoiled boy to pass Auror training, but he did. Nor did they ever expect him to breach the inner circles of the Light Side as a trusted equal.

"You went out with the German Minister's daughter last week?" asked Blaise with a furrow between his brows as he and Draco made way into the Ministry.

"Caught that from the journalists, did you?"

"I got that from Daphne, actually. She was writing a piece about the Minister's daughter and pictures of you two on a yacht surfaced."

"It was a friendly visit between citizens of two great countries."

Blaise let out a loud laugh. "Spoken like a true politician. I'll get an election slip from Shacklebolt if you're thinking about running next term."

Draco rolled his eyes. "The public might love to keep up with my every move, Blaise, but no one would ever vote for a convicted Death Eater to be in their Ministry council."

A clapping echoed off the emerald-tiled corridor Draco and Blaise were about to part ways in. There, in true fashion of the thing that most irked Draco Malfoy, was the Golden Trio (Weasley's stupid, freckled face constantly close to winning first spot).

"Well, at least you got that bit right. Former Death Eaters might be good for entertainment, but not for improving our world," said Weasley, dropping his hands back to his sides. "You also forgot that you need to _work_ to run for council. Your father can't buy you a seat, nor can you sleep your way to the top."

Draco could feel his extreme dislike for the redhead tosser building in his chest, but settled it in one deep breath (it would not do him any good if he killed Ron Weasley with witnesses around). "You know who slept their way to the top, Weaselbee? Pansy. And by the top I mean _on top of me_. You know, because I used to screw your fiancee."

"Ronald," said Granger in a soft breath, reaching for Weasley's hand, keeping him from launching forward. "It's not worth it."

"You did start it, mate," said Potter, surprising both Draco and Weasley. The former had been absolutely sure the Chosen One would start throwing his royalty title to have Draco escorted out of the Ministry (or sent to Azkaban). Okay, that was an exaggeration from Draco's constantly feuding mind. Potter and he were no longer enemies—nor were they anywhere close to being friends, of course. They had just come to a silent agreement that it was best for both of them to steer clear from one another as civilly as possible.

Weasley turned red from his disbelief. "But, Harry—"

"Come on. We've got a hearing in ten minutes, anyway," interrupted the Head Auror to his second in command. "Blaise," Potter then added, "I left the Jones case file on your desk. I'm signing you up to assist me with it."

"Got it, boss," said Blaise with a salute. Draco wanted to spew his breakfast back up because of it.

As the male end of the Golden Trip departed, Granger stayed behind. She briefly flashed her chocolate eyes at Draco before directing them at Blaise. She opened her mouth to speak, but Draco could not hear the words that came out.

It had been almost a year since he last saw her.

As it was accustomed when regarding Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger, things did not end well. She had smashed his nose in after he made a harmless remark on how pathetic it was for her to show up to Weasley and Pansy's engagement party by herself. It was in his knowledge (as it was in everyone's) that she had been pining after Weasley since their schooldays (Merlin only knew why), but never managed to lock him down. It was a damn right miracle that she had escaped his clutches, Draco had told her in a complimentary tone, but Granger had not seen it as that. Unbeknownst to him, as he continued to point out she was going to end up alone, the relationship Granger had been in had just ended when she discovered her boyfriend was actually a married man.

Now she stood before him again and something had changed in her appearance. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but it caused him to admire the way she sparkled under the light like a new diamond. He was not fond of Hermione Granger, but he could appreciate a stunning gem when he saw one (even if it was not in his tastes).

"That'll be great, Hermione. Thank you," Draco came back to the present when Blaise gave the brunette a charming grin. It was a rare sight to see, given that Blaise, alike most everyone in their circle, only pulled their lips upward to seduce or to gloat. This expression, however, was genuine and kind.

She leaned in to Blaise and pressed a kiss to his cheek. "And bring hibiscuses," Granger said before leaving the corridor.

There was something about her audacity to not even give Draco an aggravated glance that made him frown. He was not meant to be ignored.

"Is your newest conquest Granger? Mate, you have seriously downgraded. Do Nott and I need to have an intervention? I've got slags on waiting. One Floo Call and they're yours."

Blaise rolled his eyes. "I don't fancy your sloppy seconds, Draco. Nor Theo's for that matter. Besides, you know I'm dating Daphne Greengrass."

"No, you're _screwing_ Daphne Greengrass. There's a difference."

"My business with Hermione is my own. Now, run along to your appointment before they ticket you again."

Draco scoffed at Blaise, but he did as he was advised. The last time he ran late to a Ministry summons Kingsley Shacklebolt had ordered a confiscation of his wand. It was an extreme punishment, but when you are a labeled Death Eater your rights are easily stripped away (after all, there weren't any members of council whom sought to amend the treatment those tattooed with the Dark Mark underwent).

He knocked twice on a grand door and waited with a balled fist for it to open. When it did, he marched in and took a seat, narrowing his silver eyes at the person before him.

At the desk, nose shoved into a file, was Luna Lovegood. She hummed quietly to herself for a few more moments before putting the paperwork down. Like it was accustomed to see upon her pale features, Luna smiled dreamily at whomever was before her (and it never wavered even if the other person hated her with an extremity).

"Good morning, Draco. How are you today?"

"Busy," he replied through gritted teeth. "Can we hurry this along? I've got a meeting with my board of directors in an hour."

"This session might run late, I'm afraid. I went to Africa since our last meeting and picked up calming herbs I would like to try," Luna returned, picking up a large, lavender box with flowers and other plants. "Don't worry, everything is approved by Regulation. I promise I won't poison you."

"Could you, please?" Draco huffed. He'd rather gladly end his own life than to spend another minute with the mental woman.

She pretended not to hear him (or maybe she hadn't) as she accio-ed a teapot and its set. "Now, the new calming droughts are for the Legilimency I scheduled."

"What?" he snarled as he shot up from his seat. "We did that last meeting, Lovegood. You are not allowed more than one Legilimency a month."

"That is true, Draco, but, if you remember, you stormed out of our last one. Impressive as it was, your use of Occlumency is the best I have ever seen, we never finished it. I could have reported you to the Department of Rehabilitation of Former Death Eaters, but I chose not to for the sake of second chances."

"I don't want your pity, Lovegood."

Luna glanced over him gently, like she was searching for something. When she seemed to have found it, she nodded to herself and wrote something on the notepad over her desk.

"It's not pity. It's blackmail, actually. It's my first time trying it. How am I doing?" Draco grew aggressively confused. "If I report you to the Head you are sanctioned, then put to house arrest for three months without your wand."

Draco pressed his lips into a tight line, grudgingly taking a seat before the younger woman.

"Okay," she said in a cheerful tone that was incredibly misplaced in the current setting, "we will start again on the night you were inducted to the Death Eaters."

 **X**

All throughout the day Draco kept waiting for his mind to snap back into place but it had not happened. He could still feel Lovegood inside his brain, picking at it, pulling out memories he had suppressed into the shadows of his skull walls. It was stretched like an elastic band, but it was not retracting. He tried to ignore it as best as he could, pretending like he could not feel the cold chill of death and evil on his skin. He failed, of course. That shit happened even to the best of them, so Draco could not berate himself for it. Still, it drove him mad.

The only way to battle that side of him was with loose women and expensive alcohol.

He did not believe in signs of the universe, for starters. That crack of shit was left to the naive tossers who were too afraid to step out into the real world and shape their own destinies. Nothing was meant to be. Things happened as you made them. But one glance at a pair of brown eyes in the multitude of grinding bodies made Draco believe in omens. It was a signal from whatever force in the universe he had managed not to piss off; it told him to turn around and go to sleep at a reasonable hour alike all other professional businessmen with an empire under their belt. Yet, Draco was not a stranger to danger or evil forces (that had been proven earlier that morning). This one, however, was not something that would mark his skin with his mistakes, but one that seemed to fuel a flame in his blood.

Granger stood by the bar, leaning against the edge of the counter, sipping on her drink like she was the most carefree person on Earth. Her body language itself was enough to make one wonder if it was really her (seeing as she was commonly known as frigid), but the tight, black mini skirt and white laced crop-top made Draco's eyes wander over her figure until they landed on the red, sleek pumps on her feet.

She caught sight of him immediately, too. After all, years of being enemies trained them to be wary of one another. Her shoulders tensed when he approached the bar, but she held her tongue when he ordered his drink.

It would have been easier to remain silent, but Draco was not the smartest when it came to dealing with things that had the potential to end in catastrophe. Their entire history was proof of that.

So when he threw back his shot of whiskey (asking for a double next) he turned to her and said, "You know I billed you for that broken nose, right?"

Granger took a long sip of her drink. "I know. It ended up in the rubbish bin along with your reputation."

Perhaps it was the alcohol traveling in her system, or the fact that she was in the scene of lost inhibitions, that made her turn to him with mirth in her eyes. Draco was almost confused by it, tempted to look behind his shoulder to see if one of her friends was there. But when she smirked, arrogantly in a way he always knew she had in her but others ignored, he grinned back.

"Being Head Healer has its perks, then."

"Just like owning this club, hmm?" she countered, setting her empty glass on the counter. She tapped the side of it with her index finger, raising a sharp brow at Draco.

He shook his head, scoffing to mask the disbelief at her change of attitude as he snapped his fingers to order the bartender to refill her glass.

"Well, what do you think of the place?" Draco asked as he handed her back her drink.

"I think the darker it is in here the more susceptible people are to sinning.

"That's exactly what I was going for."

Hermione Granger would have frowned and looked upon Draco Malfoy like he was the sickest bastard she'd ever come across, but this version of her before him laughed. She threw her head back, her brown curls sending out a distinct floral scent that made Draco unknowingly take a step closer.

"Did you come in tonight tonight to check on Pansy's hen party?"

Draco momentarily glanced away from Granger to spot Pansy on the dance floor with her group of females. His friend was most definitely drunk (as he would be if he had to be that close to marrying Weasley), but seemed to be having the time of her life. He would never say directly it to her face, of course, but as long as she was happy with her poor life choices he would be so in return for her. She found something that none of them ever thought they would be capable of having (of course, Fate had scammed her by giving her Weasley). So when Pansy demanded that his new club host her bachelorette party with an exclusive guest list that night, Draco allowed her to believe she annoyed him into it when in reality he wanted her to enjoy herself.

"I come to check the business every other Friday," he told Granger as he gave her his focus again. "Despite popular belief, I do work hard for my money and take interest on how my clientele finds the service I am providing. It does not do my stocks any good if the Malfoy name is portrayed negatively. At least not in the corporate world," he added in to save the Death Eater punchline.

"The alcohol and sex is just another day at work, then?" was what Granger responded with, still smirking at him as her pink lips wrapped around her straw, taking another long drink.

Draco chuckled. "Is that not what you get at work?"

Granger's nose wrinkled as she laughed, too. "Afraid not. A hospital is dedicated to curing alcohol poisoning, not giving one."

"Ah, but it seems we are helping each other right now." Draco gestured to her drink. "You are buying from my bar, and at the rate you are drinking, you'll be sent to hospital for overdoing it."

She sipped the content in her glass until it was emptied. "You're wrong there, Malfoy."

"Am I?"

Granger willingly took a step closer to him when the song changed and became louder, earning loud screams from the dancing women. "Yes. I'm not paying for these drinks— _you_ _are_."

Normally, on any other given day, Draco would have told Granger he would only buy her a drink if she promised to disappear forever, but in that moment, with the way the lights fell on her, with the haze of alcohol settling in his bloodstream, he did not see a bad idea coming even it was to smack right into his chest. He ordered a bottle and two shot glasses and their casual chatter ended up in a competitive drinking game ( _'I studied to be a Healer, Malfoy,'_ she had said when he asked where the hell she learned to handle her liquor, _'I was drinking when I wasn't sleeping or studying'_ ).

At a later point in time Pansy and her group joined Draco and Granger at the bar. This was when every face and every shape began to blur into one for all those involved. And somehow, some way, Draco and Granger left together to end up on his bed—getting married somewhere in the middle.

 **X**

" _No_ ," Draco hissed at the two women staring back at him. "None of that is true. If I saw Granger at my bar I would have had security escort her out. I don't allow animals inside my club."

Granger glared at him, but in record time she settled her ire toward Draco. He thought it was odd she did not retaliate, but instead drew in a deep breath. "Look, Draco," she began, using his first name so gently it unraveled him, "that's exactly what happened. We drank and we left together."

"That doesn't explain how you two ended up fucking _married_!" Pansy shouted.

"Yes! Exactly!" Draco added in, grateful that his friend was now present. She would make Granger go away.

"It's a little hazy, but we were talking about how good we would be together."

"Bullshit!"

"Is it? We were getting along—"

"Because we were _drunk_!" Draco threw his arms up.

Granger nodded, not disagreeing with that obvious assessment, but she kept her lips in a tight line.

"For Salazar's sake," Pansy breathed, her expression becoming one of dread. She stepped closer to Granger, putting her hands on her sides. "I'm so sorry, Hermione."

"You're sorry for _her_?" demanded Draco, aghast.

"I just remembered him leaving with you, which is how I knew to come to find you here when you weren't home," Pansy ignored her friend as she now held her head between her hands. "It's coming back to me now, though. You two were going on about not finding intelligent equals and then I made the suggestion that maybe you two were right for one another. Fuck. Ron's going to kill me."

" _I'm_ going to kill you, Pansy!" Draco turned toward her, marching at full speed. He would choke her with his bare hands—and he would have, if it had not been for Granger and the wandless Protego she threw around the other woman. "Why the fuck would you put idiotic ideas in my head when I'm piss drunk? You know I'm susceptible to recklessness when I'm impaired!"

"I was drunk, too!" Pansy screeched in her defense. "Do you honestly think I would have let Hermione run off with you if I had not been?"

"Yes! You hate her!" he hissed back. "And you are still a bitter ex. How can you not be? I dumped you for that Italian model and you ended up with Weasley. I practically ruined your life, so now you want to ruin mine!"

Pansy picked up a glass bowl from the coffee table and waved it at Draco. "I am not your bitter ex, you idiot! I'm in love with Ron! And now I might end up abandoned at the altar because I sent off his best friend with his worst enemy!"

Draco cringed at her words. "No. No. We can fix this. I'll owl my family's lawyers. We can have the marriage annulled."

"You can't annul a magical wedding! Ministry laws aren't that easily broken, this isn't Vegas," Pansy retorted.

She was right, Draco knew, but the cells in his brain were working fast now; he was not going to settle for defeat. "Shacklebolt will do it for Granger! There is no way in hell he would let her be married to me. The media will have a field day. For fuck sakes, Potter will start a war. The Ministry will be done with this quickly and quietly. No one has to know."

"You're right, Draco," said Pansy, nodding furiously. "You and Hermione get dressed and we'll deal with this before the Daily Prophet finds out."

Draco was quick to start making his way to his bedroom, but he noticed that Granger had not moved. She continued to stand in her place, clad in her underwear, her brown hair wild and tangled from their previous night that Draco could not seem to remember completely. If she was just as eager as him to get rid of their stupid mistake, she did not show it.

"Hermione," called Pansy with a lack of patience, "what is it? We have to get a move on now."

Granger shook her head slowly. "I can't."

Draco spun on his heels, glaring her down. "What do you mean you can't?"

"I'm pregnant," she said, digging her brown eyes deep into his silver.

The heart in his chest gave a sudden stop. Ice cold fear raced down his spine. He was sure his body was shutting off into a coma, but then he remembered that fertilization did not exactly work that fast.

He shouted at her just that.

"Well, of course I'm not right this moment, _but I can be_ ," Granger clarified. "We had sex so many times yesterday and not once did we use a Contraceptive Spell. There might be a chance I'll end up pregnant. If that's so, I am not going to deal with this on my own. A rendezvous wedding you can sweep under the rug, but we cannot—we will _not_ do that to a baby."

"What the hell are you saying, then, Granger?" Draco growled, his headache coming back with a vengeance.

She faced him, eyes so wide and warm it brought forth flashes of her bliss to Draco's mind. Seeing her standing there, perfect, raw, and beautiful made something in his bones briefly long to remember what it was like to have his body pressed against hers.

"A month. Give it one month to see if I'm pregnant or not. Until then, we stay married."

* * *

 **AN: Hello, lovelies! I just wanted to say a HUGE thanks to all of you who have been reviewing. I haven't been able to reply to all of them (my stupid internet is being a douche), but they are all very much appreciated. It is so good to be back writing for FF!**


	3. Moving In

All of Saturday was spent in shock. Draco, still clad in his day-old trousers, did not move from his position on the couch; his silver eyes were agape, clearly lost in thought as his palms held his chin up. He ignored the throbbing of his hangover headache by swallowing poison to combat the symptoms. By no means, however, was his body reacting to the alcohol. After three shots and no tingle of numbness, he set the bottle at his feet and continued to hold his silence.

He had fucked up. He had really, really fucked up. This was not like when he was nineteen and he demolished his family's home in France during a wild party and was deported back to England. This was far worse than the time he slept with the Spaniard princess on the eve of her wedding to his own cousin. This even trumped the time he had gotten so plastered he slept with Astoria Greengrass before seducing her mother when he snuck out of her bedroom—then got caught by Mister Greengrass, who was so enraged he had a heart attack and almost died. Yeah...Marrying Granger and possibly impregnating her was definitely the dumbest thing Draco had done.

Sunday somehow came and Draco was only brought back to the present when he heard Delta's voice calling for him.

"Master," said the house-elf, "there is a woman in the kitchen, Master. She says to Delta she is making Master lunch, but Delta always makes Master's lunch."

"Can you make someone disappear for me?" Draco muttered slowly. "I'm not saying kill her, but perhaps knock her over the head with a hard object, snap her wand in half, and then apparate her to the most remote place on Earth. Make sure she has no way of getting back to Britain, if you are so kind."

"I is sorry, Master," Delta replied with complete displeasure on not being able to follow an order, "but Ministry checks on Delta's activities to makes certain Master is behaving."

Draco scowled. He knew the Ministry even kept tabs on the company that made his boxers to ensure he was being a modeled citizen, but that did not have the power to aggravate him at the current moment. How the hell was he going to get rid of Granger?

Speaking of the devil, she entered the living room carrying a tray. Just as Draco was still in his clothes from the night this disaster occurred, so we she. All Granger had covering her lacy undergarment set was his button-up. She smiled tentatively when she rested the tray on his center table, picking up his bottle of whiskey in the process.

"Eat," she instructed him. "You'll feel better. There's also a Sobering Potion in there because I know you must still feel sick."

"I'll feel loads better if you fucked off, Granger," Draco replied, not bothering to be cordial whatsoever (not like it was in his nature, anyway).

She took a calming breath. "We've been over this. I am not going to leave until we are sure I am not pregnant."

"You are not!"

"How do you know that?"

" _Because_!" he retaliated, clearly not his best use of logic (not like any of this was). "You can wait as long as you bloody want, but do it at your own place."

Granger narrowed her brown gaze at him, ready to counter-argue, but there was a knocking at the door. Delta hurried off to tend to it.

"Who the fuck is now?" Draco growled. "Potter and Weasley ready to fight me for shagging their best friend?"

"It's Blaise," informed Granger.

Draco snapped his neck to glare at her. "What'd you mean it's Blaise?"

On cue, the mentioned man appeared at the entrance of the living room. He was without his Auror robes, suggesting that he had taken a day off and was clearly not pleased that he found himself in Draco's flat once more (especially since his days off were usually spent with a girl he refused to give identity to or having tea with a mother he resented).

"What's so bloody important—" Blaise halted his complaint when his eyes found an almost naked brunette in the presence of his best friend. The complete shock Draco must have sported when he first saw Granger exit his bedroom was now on Blaise.

He took a wobbly step further into the sitting area. He turned from Granger to Draco, clearly using his Auror skills to solve the mystery at hand. Both half-naked suspects could only lead to one possible crime.

"Okay," Blaise whispered, clocking in on the bottle of liquor in Granger's hand. "A drunken bender usually ends in mistakes. Hermione, you've been stressed at St. Mungo's and, Draco, you are prone to stupidity. Fine. A one night stand. Okay. I'm just warning you, though, mate, I'm not arresting her."

Draco was about to oppose his last statement when Granger interjected with, "Actually, Blaise, it was me that owled you."

"I can't charge him for being bad at sex, Hermione. Unless—Draco, did you force yourself on her?"

Draco returned Blaise's disgusted expression.

"No," Granger spoke again, "it was consensual."

"Why?" Blaise grimaced.

"Cheers, mate," scoffed Draco.

"Come off it. She's the most intelligent person on this planet. It would be wrong not to question her judgement on this."

"She has always been fucking mental. I've said that since Hogwarts, haven't I?"

"True. But she's never been that—"

"Draco and I got married!" shouted Granger as the two Slytherins weighed in on her like she was not three feet from them.

That seemed to stop the interaction between the two friends. Hell, even Delta stopped picking up the mess Pansy had left behind when he came looking for Granger the day before. Draco cringed at the reminder, the house-elf gasped, her eyes widening with sparkle, and Blaise appeared to be having an aneurysm.

"That's why I owled you," Granger continued. "You are our friend and I wanted you to know. As well, as an Auror, you have some knowledge of the law. You can tell us how to proceed from here."

"Salazar," Blaise let out his version of a gasp. "Yeah, of course I can help. We can get this settled—not revoked because our marriage system is more binding than Muggle law, but we can have this figured out. I am so sorry this happened to you, Hermione."

"Why does everyone feel sorry for _her_?" hissed Draco as his friend approached Granger with the intent of giving her a comforting hug. "Feel sorry for me, for fuck sakes! I'm married to Granger— _Granger_ , Blaise!"

"I don't want to get the marriage revoked," explained Granger. "I want you to tell him that legally speaking I am his wife and as such I am entitled to his flat. He cannot throw me out."

Again, Blaise looked like he was hit beside the head with a beater's bat. "Why would you want to stay married to this sod?"

Draco did not take offense to that statement. "That's exactly what I said! Make her go away, Blaise. She's clearly a nutter."

"Blaise," demanded Granger, her hands on her waist, parting Draco's button-up to reveal what very little she wore underneath. For a moment, both Blaise and Draco could not help the side of them that was governed by their hormones. Silence fell as they shamefully oggled the exposed skin of the woman before them. Of course, she used this to her advantage (the saucy minx). "Tell him I cannot go. As his wife I can live here, too."

"Draco," muttered Blaise distractedly, almost as if he was in a trance, "she cannot go. As your wife she can live here, too."

"Okay," said Draco unbeknownst to himself.

"Brilliant," said Hermione, closing the button-up again. "I've had your Floo connected to mine so I can start moving things in."

"Delta will help, Mistress!" cried the house-elf happily.

"Call me Hermione, please," she was heard saying to Delta as she turned on her heels and headed for the bedroom.

As she left the spell broke. Draco's aggravation returned tenfold. "You have to help me get rid of her!"

"She's so incredibly fit, though," offered Blaise, who was still looking at the trail Hermione had left behind. Draco elbowed him roughly on the ribs. "Well, she is. You can't deny that. You shagged her, after all."

Draco kept his lips in a tight line for a moment. He was not about to divulge that he, in fact, did not remember how sex with Granger was like (let alone what she looked like in her naked glory, trembling underneath him). He would never live it down (not like he would live down marrying her!).

"You are definitely fucked, mate," continued Blaise as he grabbed a potato wedge from the tray of food Granger had prepared. "Legally she does have every right to everything you own—given that you did not sign a prenup after your drunken vows, right?"

Draco flipped his friend off. "I just have to make her hate me."

"Doesn't she already?"

"Obviously not if she refuses to divorce me!" Still, the thought popped into Draco's head. Hadn't Granger hated him before their regrettable night together? For Salazar's sake, last time he was in her presence she broke his nose. How could they go from that to bound by marriage? "I'll just make her realize that this will only end up in disaster. Even if she is pregnant, she would rather have it all on our own than—"

"She's pregnant?" interjected Blaise, brows high on his forehead. His shock settled when he, too, realized that was impossible. "Hold on, mate. You're a terrible fucking person who has no experience whatsoever in what good parenting is—which, I obviously understand given our similar upbringings—but to abandon your kid? Not even you can fall so low."

Draco balled his hands into fists. "Are you going to help me get rid of Granger or not?"

"I don't want to get involved more than I have to be, actually. This is your mess. You have to fix it on your own this time."

With a grunt, Draco dismissed Blaise from his home. Though he knew that Blaise was now an accepted member in the community for his hard and impeccable work as an Auror, earning him respect and friendship from the Golden Trio, that did not lessen the fact that Draco and he were best friends. They had history. They were brothers—and the fucker was ruining that comradeship by being sensitive to Granger. He had helped Draco get rid of clingy women before, what was the difference now? Just because he got _married_ to her? What was the sanctity of marriage to bachelors like them?

Draco marched to his bedroom with the intent to lock his Floo Network, but, of course, the Brightest Witch of Her Age had prepared for such reaction. No spell in Draco's repertoire could compete with whatever she conjured. She was a far better witch than he was a wizard, he had to admit—but he came very damn close and he was very proud of that.

He sat at the edge of his bed, staring down at the gold band on his finger. He tried to pull on it, to remove it, but it was stuck. That was the power of a marriage bond for wizards. Until the separation between a married couple was deemed legal, the ring would never come off; it was meant to uphold the respect for the union that had been fused. Draco never thought he would end up with such promise. Sure, in the past, as an obedient, fearful, proud child he knew that he would take a wife for the sake of continuing his pure lineage. Then the war came, bringing exposure to the lies he had been fed, destroying the only way of life he had known. When he survived the Dark Lord's defeat, Draco had sworn to himself that he would live the life he wanted, away from tradition and expectations. Marriage was on the list of things he surrendered to his rebellion.

He was not sure how long he spent staring down at the ring when the flames in his fireplace burned green. Out came Delta, carrying a box and wearing an elated smile (the traitor). Closely behind came Granger, now changed into a casual dress with a suitcase in hand. Draco expected them, just not the person that later followed.

He tossed his back onto the mattress, burying his face into his palms as he cursed repeatedly.

"Yeah, fuck me sideways, too, Malfoy," said Ginny Weasley, dropping the rucksack she was helping Granger bring over. "You are the last person on Earth I want married to Hermione."

"Oh, fuck off, Weasley," Draco said back. "How does it feel to be a pathetic old maid? Pansy's marrying your dimwit brother soon and Granger screwed me over by marrying me, but Potter has not even gotten down on one knee for you. I'll let you in on something, if he's waiting this long it means he doesn't want to marry you."

Ginny's cheeks grew deep red. "For your information, ferret, I was the one who chose not to get married until after I retire from my Quidditch career and Harry agreed. That's what love and compromise is—something you clearly know nothing about since you had to get my friend plastered to marry you."

When Draco sprang upward, Hermione put her palms up at the other occupants of the bedroom. "That's enough," she said with her parental tone. "Ginny was waiting for me at my place. I had no other option than to tell her."

"You just don't tell her," snapped Draco. "Why are you so set on informing the entire world about this, Granger? It's not going to last so quit it."

"Don't talk to her like that—"

"Seriously, _enough_!" Hermione cut across again. "As long as we are married, Draco, you and my friends will have to learn to tolerate each other."

"Tell me you didn't tell Potter and Weasel," Draco almost begged. "I fucking swear if they cross my Floo right now I am going to blast every single hair off their heads."

Granger sighed. "I haven't told them—yet. But I will, Draco. They are my friends and we are married. You'll have to learn to deal with that."

"Yeah, Draco," teased Ginny with a giant smirk, "you'll have to learn to deal with that. In fact, I have a match next weekend. You should bring him, Hermione. Bill and Fleur are returning from their trip to America and Charlie is coming in to see me play. It is the semi-finals, after all. The entire family will be present. Oh, and most of the D.A, too."

He could have hexed her right then and there, but, really, that would only prompt the entire world to come after him. He still was not sure if that was a risk he was willing to take (seeing as he would rid himself of Granger in the end of attacking Ginny Weasley), so he settled on glaring at her. Of course, that did not mean that Granger was not already contemplating that idea even if Draco looked like he rather throw himself off the tallest tower into a pit of burning lava.

"Thanks for being understanding, Gin," Hermione said to her friend when Delta happily took off to arrange the things they had brought over from her new mistress' place.

Ginny glanced over at Draco, scrunching her nose up in distaste before looking deep in to Hermione's brown gaze. "You don't have to do this," she whispered. "This can't end well."

"Ginny—"

"I know why you are doing it. You've given me your reasons, and I am no one to question your judgment, but I worry about you."

Hermione blinked in Draco's direction. He was frowning at Delta making room in his expensive dresser for some of her belongings, but she could see his ears perk at the sound of her and Ginny's quiet exchange.

"You don't have to be," she tried to assure Ginny.

The latter laughed humorlessly. "Don't I? We are talking about someone who has hated you most of his life—who probably still hates you now. What do you think he'll do to get rid of you? Harry and Ron will not be happy about this."

"I don't care what Harry or Ron will think," Hermione said harshly. She settled her ire quickly when Ginny was taken aback. "You said you understood why I was doing this."

Ginny gave her a stiff nod in return. "Fine. I'll leave you to it...Mrs. Malfoy."

Hermione's shoulders tensed for a sliver of time, but then she released a dim smile. "Thank you," she said as she leaned in to give a farewell embrace.

When that ended Ginny narrowed her sharp eyes at Draco. "One scratch on her, Malfoy, and I will cut off your bits and feed them to Buckbeak. And I don't care if it was Crookshanks that caused it. I'll blame you for everything."

"As usual?" Draco retorted.

Ginny entered the Floo and disappeared, leaving the new couple together.

Tension rose immediately, as it was to be expected, but Hermione was not going to let it settle.

"I will help Delta tidy up around the flat. Meanwhile, I suggest you eat something."

Delta beamed as her new mistress started giving her soft-spoken orders on what needed to be done. Draco wanted to instruct his house-elf to forgo anything that came out of Granger's mouth, but that was the thing about marriage bonds and magical creatures—they recognized when someone aside from the original family was given entitlement to them, too.

Draco had eventually walked out of his own bedroom to get away from Granger. He seethed to himself as he downed the overdue Sobering Potion and then proceeded to eat the meal she had prepared hours ago. After two hours, when he heard her enter his second bathroom, turning on the shower, he went back to his room. The moon was now overhead, surrounded by stars, and all Draco wanted was to forget the nightmare he was living.

However, Granger had other plans. Just as he was about to close his eyes, tucked into his thousand thread count sheets, she entered his bedroom. He watched with incredulous silver eyes as she, in panties and a Puddlemere United jersey, stood on the unoccupied, right side of his bed.

"What are you doing?" he demanded.

"I'm going to bed."

"Here?"

"Where else?"

"I don't know, Granger—the bloody living room. There's a nice couch there. Enjoy it."

She frowned. "I am not sleeping on a couch for a month." As he opened his mouth to protest she added for the hundredth time, "And I'm not going home."

"Aren't you a witch? Magick a bed for yourself. Now get the hell out."

Just as Draco did not take orders from anyone, neither did Hermione. He should have known that. It was exactly the reason why she grabbed the hem of the sheets and undid what she now called her side of his bed.

"You are shy about getting into bed with me now?" she huffed as she climbed onto the bed. "Funny how you did not want me to get out of it before. But if it really bothers you, then I suggest you take the couch."

Draco held his tongue.

"Now that that's settled I'm going to sleep." She leaned in, closing the gap between them. His eyes widened, about to pull back, but her lips grazed his left cheek. "Good night, husband."

She rolled away from him, pulling the sheets up to her neck before using a wandless spell to turn off the lights.

Draco frowned at her silhouette. This meant war.

* * *

 **AN: Hello, my lovely readers! I hope you liked this chapter (although it was mostly a filler). Please review with your feedback. I'd love to know what you think! Til next chapter... :D**


	4. The End of War

Darkness drowned the room, entrapping the stench of death. Everything that once had been so refined was now shattered and useless—including them. The Malfoy family had fallen from Pureblood grace and were now servants and prisoners of their Master. They had been guaranteed the promise land but were deserted in the treacherous underworld. Lucius and Narcissa were dejected by the injustice they received at the hand of their Dark Lord, but Draco faced the sharp, disillusioned reality of what his parents and their bigoted devotions brought him.

And it all came covered in blood.

The first time he saw a prisoner being taken to the cellar of Malfoy Manor, Narcissa had promptly escorted him away, trying to hide the gore that came with the war. She only managed to shield him twice more before Draco was used as a weapon of torture.

He threw up the first time he had to cast the Cruciatus Curse on a captive. The anger was easy to conjure, for he was defeated and full of resentment for the world he was forced into, to endure the lowly status they now had, but the screaming of his victim scaled up his spine and electrocuted him. The older Death Eaters laughed at his inability and showed Draco what treatment prisoners of war actually received.

Then came the day he recognized one of the faces lined up for questioning. It was Luna Lovegood. She had been dragged in from the cellar by her hair; she had kicked and flailed to no end, but her obvious undernourishment was no match against hefty, horrible men. Draco had never thought much about the Ravenclaw before, but he had seen her as others did: harebrained like a child. Certainly that was how she appeared when she was surrounded by Death Eaters ready to begin their tireless investigations on the whereabouts of Harry Potter. Lovegood was beaten, but not once did she beg for mercy or shed a tear in their presence.

When they were at the end of using her as a punching bag, a line of freshly apprehended prisoners were brought in by the snatchers. Included had been one Dean Thomas. One look at Lovegood and he fought several Death Eaters until he ended a heap beside her. When Thomas' dark eyes found Draco's in the midst of darkness, his disgust could light up the room.

"She's just a girl," he hissed as Draco led the captives back to the cellar. "Only cowards do what you just did."

Lovegood dragged her bruised body back to a corner of the cell she had taken as her own space. Mister Ollivander crawled to her, running a comforting hand through her hair, whispering fatherly words of comfort that could never heal the wounds she now owned. Draco was sure he heard a small sob choke past her lips before hiding her face in her broken kneecaps.

"If they're going to kill us," said Thomas, gripping the bar of the gate before Draco could close it, "then you do it. I've seen what they do to girls they capture... If you have some compassion, Malfoy, kill her before the Death Eaters get their hands on her."

The worst Draco had seen had yet to arrive. It took only a few weeks following Christmas for the Golden Trio to be brought in.

He had been present countless of times for an investigation led by his Auntie Bella. She was the best executioner in the game (especially since she aspired to meet every expectation her Master had for his followers). Mental as she was, Bellatrix was brilliant and creative. Her interrogations were never boring to those on her level of insane. Draco had been able to cope as best as possible through her creations, but with Hermione Granger on the floor, twisting, crying, bleeding, screaming, her skin carved on after being set on fire inside out, Draco was certain he would never be the same again. In the spectrum of Bellatrix's bloodlust, Granger did not rank the foulest, but there was something about innocence being destroyed right before his eyes that was far more gruesome than mutilation and murder. Or perhaps he saw in Granger what he had felt.

Years came and went, but Draco had won at suppressing the nightmares of his time as a prisoner. Then came the news that his Evaluator was no longer a pathetic, middle-aged, balding man who never had the interest to rehabilitate Death Eaters. No, now it was time for Luna Lovegood (who, as she said to Draco in their first session, wanted to really get an understanding of the misunderstood) to take on the Ministry's dedicated mission to save the souls of the already condemned. Having Lovegood as his Evaluator was tolerable at best (given that he was only required to see her twice a month), but having his worst nightmare replay over and over, day in and day out, was something he would not stand for. Especially if he was now married to that terror.

So there, on his side, laid Draco, glaring down at Hermione Granger's sleeping figure wrapped in his sheets. She was so small, but she packed a hurricane in her chest. Draco had to come up with something quickly before he got caught in her storm.

She turned to the left, facing him. He held his breath. When her eyes did not flutter open, Draco paused his disdain for her. How could she sleep so calmly? He was up half of the night because he could feel her body heat radiate into his side, pressing against him, making him warm through the cold, British weather. It was such an odd thing. Uncomfortable did not even begin to cover it, but there she was, sleeping so peacefully.

Draco flicked the tip of her nose before standing from his bed.

Trying his best to proceed as normally as possible, Draco went to his regal bathroom to start his day. He was halfway through his shower, letting the hot water rain down on him to undo the knots in his back caused by all his current mishaps, when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He spun around, opening his silver eyes to find that hopped up Granger in there with him.

"What the hell are you doing?" he asked, ashamed by how embarrassed his voice echoed off the tiled room.

"Showering," she supplied casually, reaching her right arm to grab a shampoo bottle from behind him. "Do you mind?" She gestured to the water.

Draco wasn't aware how he managed to move because he was, regrettably, very dumbfounded by Granger. It was not as if they were the best of friends (or tolerable human beings coexisting in the same city), but she was easy to figure out and label. She was a damn prude through and through. That was not debatable. In their school years she was always a frumpy sort of girl, always obeying the dress-code regulations of skirt lengths, properly fitted button-ups, and modest casual clothing on the weekends. Even as they got older her fashion sense was that of a nun let out into the world for the first time with a wardrobe of years past. Yet, there she was, naked and unabashed before him. Again.

He watched the way the water fell on her, pushing her curls to fall down her shoulders and cling on to her skin. Her eyes were shut, but the droplets danced on her eyelashes. They fell and his gaze followed their path. He was definitely unsure who stood before him, but there was no denying she was exquisite.

"For fuck sakes," he grumbled as soon as that thought formed in his head. He slid the crystallized door open with a little too much force. He grabbed a towel, wrapped it around his waist, and made way to his bedroom.

When he entered the room he found that, once again, his personal space was invaded by unwanted guests. This time it came in the form of his mother.

Narcissa Malfoy, ever so poised and refined, sat at the edge of his bed, ankles crossed, with a book on her lap. When her sapphire eyes met the silver of her son's, she picked up the book and asked, "Pride and Prejudice?"

Draco's teeth clamped down as he stopped himself from letting out a curse word. After he was done hexing Granger in his mind, he returned with, "Are you snooping, Mother? It does not become a woman of your status to lower yourself to such extent."

"Oh, be assured, sweetheart, women of all statuses resort to any means in order to uncover the truth that is being kept from them." Narcissa smiled too calmly at her son. "Now, shall we discuss why our lawyer was summoned to the Ministry by Blaise this morning?"

"It's nothing of importance. I'm planning a holiday to Rome and need to handle legal affairs with the Department of Magical Transportation before doing so. You know, a labeled Death Eater isn't allowed to travel to another country without the Ministry's knowledge."

Narcissa raised a sharp eyebrow. "You do not require a lawyer for that, Draco. The truth, now."

"Do I really need to tell you everything, Mother?" he snapped as he marched forward to snatch the book from her hands. "I'm not five. I'm twenty-four. If ever there was a need for you to be concerned about my every move, it should have been when there was a fucking lunatic living in our house making me do his bidding—and I'm not referring to the Dark Lord, either."

He knew he shouldn't have. Yeah, Draco was a complete arsehole to anyone that crossed his path (and he would never feel a single shred of remorse), but this was not just anyone. This was his mother. She had her faults, and, yes, he held a great deal of resentment toward her, but his flaring anger (for today) had nothing to do with her. It was everything that was starting to surface, everything he worked so hard to stomp on.

Still, if he had not exactly meant it, his mother did not pay it any mind. She never did—neither of them did, really. That was the glorious factor of a dysfunctional family. They suppressed, suppressed, suppressed until delusion blurred with reality. She did not exactly bore the mark of the devil on her skin, but she had been raised by it, married into it, subjected to following orders; so just because she saved Harry Potter's life once in a fleeting, selfish moment, it did not mean that Narcissa Malfoy escaped her own legal punishments. Alike all convicted Death Eaters, she was forced to see an Evaluator to discuss her time as a servant for the beast. There were countless cases of recovery made, ex Death Eaters becoming compliant, truly reformed citizens with newfound open hearts, but the Malfoys were not among them. Therapy did not work on those who had their light irrevocably snuffed out.

Naturally, as it was expected, Narcissa cleared her throat as she calmly stood. She smoothed out the wrinkles of her dark, expensive pantsuit. "I came to inform you that I intercepted our lawyer's owl before your father got to it. It was sent to the office. There is a board meeting this afternoon, if you recall. If they hear one single rumor about you in legal scandals, Draco, they will vote you out. Remember who we are partnered with."

Narcissa then made her way over to the fireplace in her son's bedroom. She could see that his eyes were narrowed when they quickly glanced at his feet, somewhat ashamed for his temperament, but she could not help the small tug of a smile at the corner of her lip. When she grabbed a handful of Floo Powder, she released that smile and turned to him. "I like her already."

"Who?" Draco asked as he looked back up at his mother, a brow raised.

"The girl you are dating, sweetheart. I accidentally," Narcissa smirked at this, for she had been obviously been caught snooping, "saw odd trinkets in the drawers of your night stand. The book being the strangest of them all. At least this one reads, and classic literature, no less. That cannot be said for the other girl you kept around for a while."

"Pansy's an editor, Mother."

"For Witch Weekly. Hardly a respectable, groundbreaking illustration. Unless, of course, you care to know about the adapting of that Muggle exercise Yoda and the five ways you can look flattering in proper attire."

"I think it's called yoga. And, really, I'm not dating anyone. Haven't the time or the patience," Draco said as he crossed his arms.

"You cannot keep sleeping around, Draco," she said, making him look beyond uncomfortable. Just because it was not proper to speak of such things did not mean that Narcissa did not keep up with her son's life, especially if his flings were publicized for all of the world to see. "One day someone is going to catch your eye and you, sweetheart, alike all poor, daft men, will relinquish this bachelor lifestyle for something more cemented."

Instinctively, Draco hid his hand behind his back to cover the tell-tale ring on his finger. "I've never been the commitment type."

"I don't believe that." Narcissa kept her smirk for a short moment before throwing the Floo Powder into the fireplace and disappearing in a wave of green flames.

Draco looked down at the book in his hands. There was something about the fact that Granger had brought one of her beloved companions to his home that irked him. At first he contemplated that, yes, she was certainly unlike others. Even if most of their interactions ended in some form of assault, either physical or verbal, Granger kept up with him. She was witty and intelligent. Could he say that about most women? Of course, Draco let go of that thought when he grudgingly flung the book to the wall behind his headboard.

She brought something personal to his home. That only meant that she intended to stay, and Draco was not going to let that happen. He was going to get rid of her one way or another. This was not a battle she would win. He was going to make sure of that.

 **X**

It was not that Hermione Granger was a hypocrite. Far from it, actually. She had practically sworn to Malfoy she would tell Harry and Ron about their unexpected nuptials—she just did not think she would do it by crashing their hour of lunch with some of her other friends and making a giant spectacle of it. So, really, her less than elegant fashion of doing so had all been Fleur's fault.

After a very tensed breakfast with Malfoy (that Delta had so kindly prepared and thanked Hermione for eating it), she went to St. Mungo's for her morning shift. Her life as a Healer hardly granted her much free time, but, obviously so, she had cashed in some (an excessive amount, actually) collected personal days to deal with what had transpired in the weekend. That, of course, was hectic and tiring, so she enjoyed the normalcy of the hospital. It distracted her from most things in her life that needed her attention but she refused to acknowledge.

It was strongly suggested to the students during their years at the Healer Institution not to invest affection and attachment in their future patients, but that heed did not stay with Hermione for long. She developed a bond with everyone who came to her. How could she not? They placed their lives in her hands, after all. After so much war and bloodshed her eyes had seen, Hermione had been determined to save all those that she could. Of course, assuming that she could cure every malady was a dreamer's notion; she was well aware that she would lose patients to Death. Still, she carried on, loving and tending to those who sought for it. Especially when the majority of her patients were tender and innocent children.

Five hours into her shift Hermione received what she had thought at the time to be a pleasant surprise. She opened the door to Room 394 and smiled brightly at the beautiful child waiting patiently on the bed with her even more radiant mother on a chair beside her. Victoire Weasley was essentially more Delacour, with her glowing golden hair and shimmering blue eyes, when it came to appearances, but her manner of being was all Bill. She was far more calm than the average four year-old, but when upset her rage was definitely all Weasley.

"Vic, you're back so soon. I guess we can give you your next set of vaccinations now, then," teased Hermione when she closed the door behind her.

"I'm not here for me, silly," replied the child with giggles. "Mummy is here for sissy!"

"Ah, of course. I thought it was odd Victoire's file was missing. Fleur, how are you holding up?"

Despite being seven months pregnant, Fleur was nothing short of breathtaking. She had that glow about her that expectant mothers were said to acquire, but added to her veela allure, she could easily be mistaken by a star in the night sky.

 _'It must be why Bill got her pregnant again,'_ Ron had commented casually months back, earning him a sharp blow to his ribs from Pansy. Still, he was not wrong.

Fleur placed a hand over her stomach, stroking gently. " _Ma fille_ iz an energetic one."

"Sissy dances in Mummy's tummy," said Victoire with a proud grin. "I've been showing her my dance routines, 'Mione. She's going to do ballet with me."

Both women smiled tenderly at the blonde child. With a tired sigh, Fleur looked back at her Healer. "Molly says I 'ave another Ginny in zee making."

"I think you'll be lucky if she's not a Fred and George," Hermione laughed lightly. "Vic, let your mummy on the bed, please. I have to inspect that dancing sister of yours a little further."

Just as Victoire hopped off the bed, squealing with excitement for the process that allowed her to see Dominique in their mother's stomach, Hermione offered a helping hand to Fleur. Being whom she was, the latter did not miss the unmistakable silver band around Hermione's finger.

" _Oh mon dieu,_ " gasped Fleur, tugging on Hermione's, forcing her practically to her knees as she raised her hand so the light of the hospital room could shine on the ring. "You are married! 'Ow did zis 'appen? Oh, 'Ermione, please tell me zat you did not marry zat awful man!"

Hermione bit down on her bottom lip. The name was not mentioned, but she knew who exactly Fleur was thinking about. Her despicable, backstabbing ex boyfriend. The one that had taken Hermione almost a year to get over.

Mistaking Hermione's silence for an admission, Fleur stood from her chair, blue eyes burning with determination. Years back there was hardly a cemented friendship between her and Hermione (especially because she was too busy trying to save the world with Harry and Ron while Fleur juggled being a fiancee and an Order member), but after the war had settled, and time had allowed not only Hermione, but Ginny, too, to get to know her, Fleur was a fierce lover. She would not only die or kill for Bill, she would do so for all her family—and that included Hermione, too. If there was a chance, then, that she had been bewitched again by that terrible man, Fleur would not allow it. Hermione might be caught up in honeymoon stage with her new marriage, but she would do anything and everything to assure Hermione saw reason.

Fleur had not given Hermione the chance to organize her thoughts before she stormed out of the room, Victoire hurriedly following along as her mother ranted in French in a record speed. Although she had not grasped much of what she said, Hermione picked up on Harry and Ron's name.

And that was how Hermione found herself racing a pregnant woman to find her best friends.

Given the time she knew Harry and Ron would be having lunch at the Leaky Cauldron, a habit they picked up whenever they were on business in London and wanted a quick catch up with Neville. So as soon as the Floo stopped burning green, Hermione dodged out of the fireplace like she was an expert gymnast and raced to her friends' favorite table.

"I got married!" she proclaimed, hissing in air while her heart banged away in record speed.

Harry had stopped laughing at whatever had been so funny, while Ron froze, a chunk of steak on a fork still in his mouth as he zeroed in on her. It was bad enough that Hermione had to inform her best friends in such manner, but there were added guests to her humiliation. Neville was beside Ron, his cheeks settling the pink of his previous laughter while Hannah Abbot, his girlfriend for a few years now, sat on his lap, blinking skeptically at her. On opposite ends of the table were Dean and Seamus, who had clearly been in the middle of a drinking contest given that each had a large pint in their hands.

Silence was held for what seemed like the longest minute. It was only broken when Hermione summoned the courage to raise that same hand so they could see the same wedding ring that had sent Fleur into a rage.

"I'll kill him!" roared Ron, throwing his fork back onto his plate.

"I warned him about getting near you again," grunted Harry.

"You go with them, Neville," said Hannah. "He needs to know that he cannot play with our Hermione."

Before the shuffling began Hermione squeaked, "It's not him! I didn't marry him."

Her friends paused. Confusion slowly began to settle on their faces.

"So you're not married?" asked Dean.

"I am," Hermione breathed. "I got married this past weekend."

Another fragment of silence fell on the group of friends. It was Harry's turn to break it. "What do you mean you got married, Hermione? Who the hell to?"

There was no other way around the unavoidable, right? No matter how much she wanted to stall, to Obliviate them so they could forget her sudden burst and what was bound to come, Hermione had made a promise. A commitment. She was married to Draco Malfoy and there was no escaping that.

With her resolve, Hermione held her head up high to say, "I married Draco Malfoy."

 **X**

His home was off limits. That was one of his three rules. There was a time and place for debauchery (unless it was meaningless sex), and it did not belong inside his walls. He would hex anyone that dared to even present the idea—but desperate times called for desperate measures.

That was how Draco came to be at the center of an out of control, last minute festivity taking place in his flat.

He had Flooed to his office that morning with The Grandiose Granger Fuck-Over (as he was calling) shoved far back into his mind. He had other pressing matters to resolve, and these were all corporate based. Unlike any other reasonable, responsible business man would have done, Draco had left the office last Friday night intent on drinking away his troubles until the demons in his head were comatose long enough for him to summon strength to keep ignoring them. Of course, that had been the beginning of TGGFO (The Grandiose Granger Fuck-Over). And that could have been dodged if he had gone home to do his share for the Malfoy Industries' potential partnership with _Tierra Pura_ , a Mexican potioneer lab on the rise. Presenting a new business venture to ancient, unchanging partners was always difficult, so Draco was more on edge than he typically would be.

As it was to be expected, the presentation went to shit after the first five minutes. Draco could not provide solid numbers to his partners because he had not gotten to researching them. His lack of preparation, of course, had not gone unnoticed. The partners were not to waste time on a boy who wanted to play the head of a powerful corporation, but they stayed in their seats when Lucius Malfoy so decreed it with a simple, _'Draco will deliver this meeting in two days time. Until then, let us move on to our stocks in Japan.'_

Draco sat, gritting his teeth, balling his fists, until some unimportant twat finished delivering his part. After that, he stormed to his office, throwing a useless paper-weight through a window. He had made a fool of himself in front his working peers—the people who he no longer could afford to crumble in front of. And there was only one person at fault—Granger.

Uncaring about his workload and expectations, Draco took the Floo to Nott Enterprises. He crossed the flames and caught Theodore pressed up against his secretary, a hand under her skirt as she fumbled with the zipper of his trousers.

"Trust me, love," Draco had called out, startling the two fleeting lovers, "you'll be disappointed with what you find. Tracey Davis wrote all about Theo's small, dysfunctional problem in her autobiography. You should definitely give it a read."

The secretary no longer flushed from her passionate flames, but due to embarrassment. She pushed against Theo, buttoning up her shirt as she hurriedly made her way out of the office.

Theo slammed his forehead against the wall. He raised a hand, indicating he wanted Draco to stay at the distance for a few moments. After a deep breath (and a settling of nether regions) he flipped his middle finger at the blonde, finally facing him.

"You complete arsehole," grunted Theo. "Do you know how long I've been working that angle? A week, mate. A fucking week." He removed himself from the wall to walk behind his desk, grudgingly pulling out his chair to sit down. "And you damn well know Tracey's book is a lie. She married that beater from Puddlemere United and she's suddenly famous? We all know her husband bats for the other team—pun intended. As does she, the lying, bearded bitch."

"You outted her," reminded Draco.

"Okay, I did not out her on purpose," snapped Theo. "I simply disagreed that she was shagging that Gryffindor girl for house-rivalry purposes. How was I supposed to know the news would travel and her family would find out? This is the modern century. It's not my fault they're bigoted against their daughter's lesbian tendencies."

"Yeah, known Death Eaters prejudice toward something widely deemed unacceptable? Who would've thought," returned Draco, quickly dismissing the subject. "That's not why I'm here, though."

"Oh, so it wasn't to ruin my morning lay?" Theo huffed as he shuffled a stack of papers before him.

"I'm throwing a party at my flat." That got Nott to look up, confused and intrigued all at once. He was well aware of Draco's rules. "And it needs to be _mental_."

The music blared all around him, rattling the frames on his walls that he had not secured with magic. The scent for the night was smoke, sweat, spilled alcohol, and sex. Everyone who packed inside the flat, grinding on each other, losing themselves to the burst of neon lights, was tangled with the smell. The more they inhaled it off one another the louder it got. They could shatter the night sky with their sound.

Draco took a long swing from a tequila bottle in his hand. The poison traveled to his blood, loosening the tension on his shoulders.

Across the room, dressed in tight red, was a blonde that Draco had caught staring back at him. Need flashed in her emerald eyes; they told the truth of her desires, of everything she wanted him to do to her. He was, of course, a selfish prick who thought only of himself, but Draco was never one to deny a beautiful woman was she so longingly craved.

He took another drink from his golden bottle and sauntered over, compelling the dancing bodies from his path so he could reach the blonde. He didn't ask for her name—he didn't really need it, did he—when he pressed her against the cool glass window that overlooked the skyline of his city. Draco captured the stranger's lips with his, biting into her bottom lip before proceeding to a heated kiss. She tasted of illicit substances and chances—chances to make him forget, to unravel.

Her hands flew into his hair, tugging at the roots before letting them fall onto his shoulders. This stranger was too high up to care about the crowd around them; after all, no one saw anything when the lights beamed and hot potential stood centimeters away. These sort of nights were meant to be indulgent. She would let Draco Malfoy have her in front of everyone— and she would have, too, if it had not been for a painful squeal that tore at her eardrums and a vibration that shook the ground in a wave.

Draco pulled away from the unknown woman, smacking his hands over his ears. He turned to the source of magic and found the eyes of Hermione Granger sparking with flames of fury.

The music had come to a stop, the colorful bursts of light had disappeared into a shade of reality, and the swaying of bodies had paused. All eyes were on that woman everyone in the world knew.

Hermione took one slow, dangerous step into the flat.

"Get out," she said in a low voice.

All eyes moved to the owner of the flat. Draco, now standing tall, unaffected by her unnerving magic, narrowed his eyes at her.

"Stay," he commanded his guests.

Everyone turned back to Hermione.

"Leave my house." She pulled out her wand from her pocket. There was a loud, unison intake of breath. " _Now!_ "

The crowd immediately stormed out of the flat, careful to avoid shouldering past the dangerous brunette.

"Did you not hear me?" Hermione hissed when her eyes zeroed in on the blonde woman beside Draco, the one he had been about to devour. "Step away from my husband and get out of my house before I remove every strand of that pretty hair off your head—without magic"

"When are you going to get it through your head? This is not your house!" Draco shouted as the stranger, alike all other easily intimidated dimwits, scurried off on Granger's order.

Hermione grabbed a discarded bottle and threw it at Draco. "And when are you going to get it through your head that I'm not leaving?"

Although he was slightly impaired, he dodged the bottle. It broke against the window. He bared his teeth like a beast on the prowl. "I've had it with you, Granger! We _are_ getting a fucking divorce and you _are_ going to—"

"You married Granger?" Coming out from inside the hall, zipping up his trousers, was Theodore Nott. Behind him was an equally disheveled Astoria Greengrass.

"When the hell did this happen?" continued Theo. "And why the hell wasn't I invited?"

"Fucking hell," added Astoria, approaching the scene with bare feet, her heels in one hand and her blouse unbuttoned. "I'm so sorry, Granger. You poor thing."

Draco threw his arms up. "Why is everyone fucking sympathetic for her? She's mental and I accidentally married her! This is suicide!"

"Hardly so," snorted Theo. "She's bloody fit, mate. If you want to get rid of her I'll be happy to take her off your hands."

Draco frowned at this, but it was Astoria who shoved her elbow into Theo's ribs with a warning stare.

"I'm not going to tell you again, Granger. _Leave my house_ ," hissed Draco. "In fact, all of you get the hell out."

"I'm not leaving!" Hermione shouted back as Theo had begun to make for the exist.

"If I may," said Astoria, pulling on the back of Theo's collar to keep him in place. "As a lawyer, let me settle this domestic dispute free of charge. Draco, you can't force her off your property as it is now hers. Everything you own is hers. You can thank active feminists who fought to protect our fellow kind from complete bastards like yourself."

Hermione raised her wand and pointed it at Draco. "You think you're going to scare me away with a party? Or because you were kissing some random stranger? Let me assure you, Draco, this is not a war you're going to win. It shouldn't be that new to you, losing. So I suggest you surrender now before you continue to embarrass yourself."

Theo's eyes were wide, completely entertained by Hermione.

"I love her," Astoria muttered to him. He nodded back in agreement.

"Oh," Hermione added before turning to the direction of the master bedroom. "And clean this place up. Your parents will be arriving for breakfast tomorrow, and I gave Delta two days off."

"Tell me you did not inform my parents about this," hissed Draco.

"I told Harry and Ron earlier today. I figured since they know about you, my sweet husband, it was time your family met your new wife." That was all Hermione said as she turned on her heels.

" _Granger!_ " roared Draco.

"Your ex boyfriend sleeps with your mother and you sort of expect karma will be his terrible, agonizing death," said Astoria with an alluring smirk on her face as Theo wrapped an arm around her shoulders as they headed for the door, "but this—oh, this is so much better."

* * *

 **AN: Hello, my lovelies! So sorry it's been almost a month since an update. Life is so busy at the moment. But I hope you enjoy this chapter.**


	5. Meet the Parents

Draco tossed and turned for hours. It was not only that the couch was extremely uncomfortable (for he had protested sharing a bed with Granger after what she had done), but the image of his parents' faces when they learned how he had totally fucked up would not stop playing in his head. There had been so much they had allowed him to get away with in past years because of their shame of what his life had become during war—but _this_? For fuck sakes, his mother still went throughout their refined circles looking for a suitable wife for him. They had lost the war and suffered a terrible downfall after it, yes, but one thing did not change about Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy—and that was pride. Their family will remain pure upon their very lives. They cherished their family tree more than they did the gold in their vaults (and that was saying alot considering that money was very important to them). Now Draco had damaged it, and he doubted they would be forgiving over such a reckless act.

The moonlight pouring in through his living room window turned to sunlight by the time Draco managed to sleep. Unconsciousness impacted his exhausted body like he was rammed into a wall of bricks. Blackness hazed over his mind for three hours. Then it turned to a nightmare. What woke him up was not a memory plagued by the Dark Lord, Death Eaters, or the consequences of war. No, what woke him up gasping, his heart erratically banging in his chest, was the flashback of his naked body over Granger's.

They had just apparated to his flat—miraculously un-splinched since their sense of directionality was blurred by the alcohol running in their veins. Draco shoved her against the wall, pinning her against it as his mouth devoured her and his hands pulled on those tight garments she looked unexpectedly delectable in. When her hands began to do the same with his attire, clothes now flying everywhere, he got a glimpse of how stunning she was. Of course he had appreciated her appearance back in his club, but now, with her chest heaving, her curls tangled from his fingers tugging at them, and her lips swollen from being passionately kissed, he saw her beauty. It took his breath away; just as it did back in their Fourth Year at the Yule Ball (not that he had ever admitted that to anyone). But he wasn't there to recount old memories. He was there to devour her. To make her his—even if for a night.

He grabbed the back of her bare thighs and hoisted her up. She instantly wrapped her legs around his waist as he made way for his bedroom. Her mouth had been on his neck, tentatively biting into his skin as he finished undoing his trousers. He threw her onto his bed and she eagerly awaited for him to be just as bare as her. Although his conscience was fogged by liquor, a part of him kept waiting for her to backtrack, to realize who she was with and run as far as she could. But that never came. Instead her finger motioned him forward, inviting him in. And, really, who was Draco to deny her anything?

It was odd how they fit. It was odd how it felt like home. It was odd that he felt anything at all beyond the obvious physical sensations. There was so much more happening than he could comprehend in his drunken, lustful state. As he looked down at her drowning in the waves of passion, at her brown eyes glittering gold with ecstasy, all he knew was that she was dangerous. And that thought itself woke Draco up.

Muttering a curse to himself, he rose from the couch. He stretched his limbs, hearing them crack after hours of restraining discomfort. The smell of savory food was in the air. He scowled at the direction of the kitchen. Thinking that was where Granger would be, Draco grabbed his wand from the center table and marched to his bedroom.

He was about to enter his room when he stopped at the voices inside. He pushed his back against the crook of his door, slyly peering in. Granger was there, but she was not alone.

"You are courageous, I give you that," Pansy said to Hermione. She sat at the edge of the bed, watching as the latter fretted over a selection of dresses.

"Thanks," returned Hermione as she picked up a floral dress.

"I didn't mean it as a compliment," Pansy added as she shook her head at the item Hermione had decided on. "Why the hell are you putting yourself in this position? You are risking humiliation for _Draco_. Although I want to beat him senseless most of the time, I love him, for some bizarre reason, but this? He isn't deserving of this. Don't let him see you get torn to pieces by his parents. Call this thing off."

Draco would have been elated that Pansy was trying to convince Granger of backing off on her ridiculous plan, but how she regarded him did not go unheard. What the hell did that bitch mean when she said he wasn't deserving? He was deserving of _everything_ —which is why he had everything. Just because she settled for the redheaded weasel she had to shit on everyone else? Her poor tastes were her own.

Hermione turned from the vanity (that she had apparently brought into his bedroom without his permission). From the crook he was hiding in, Draco could see a twinge of fear in her brown gaze. It manifested outwards as her fingers fiddled together over the material of another dress.

"I agreed to stay with Malfoy, didn't I? If I had to drag my friends and family to this unexpected union, then there should be no reason why the Malfoys should remain clueless. I'm his wife—"

"They _hate_ you," Pansy interrupted. She rose from the bed, grabbing a black, lace, classic midi dress from the pile, handing it to her as she grabbed the yellow garment Hermione had settled on. There was no taunt in Pansy's voice. "People like them don't change."

"You changed."

"Because I found Ron. He's light—just as you are, Hermione. People like Draco and me...We're fucking poison."

"I don't believe that. Ron wouldn't have fallen in love with you if you were."

"He trusted me when he gave me his heart. But the Malfoys—Draco especially—aren't careful with fragile pieces. They're not capable of love."

"You're his friend. How can he not love you?" asked Hermione.

"Draco sold Nott and Zabini for a box of chocolate frogs our Fifth Year, Hermione. And they're his best friends. I'm his ex-girlfriend. He'd exchange me for the gum beneath someone's shoe without a second thought." Pansy rolled her eyes. "But if there is anyone that can give them hell, that'll be you. So if you insist on going through with this, own it."

Pansy handed Granger familiar red pumps before she entered through the Floo and was gone. Once alone, Granger threw her dress and shoes on the bed, turning hastily to the mirror of her vanity. In her reflection Draco saw her anxiety double. Her fingers gripped the edge of the furniture, her breathing becoming shallow.

He never thought she was this afraid of them. When he was a child, Draco could admit he would thrive on that fear; for all he wanted then was for her to know her place, to know she would always be beneath the Malfoys. Of course he still wanted her to know her place—but that would be as _not_ his wife, rather as some jumped up woman who was impossible to tolerate. He didn't want her to fear them to the point of panic, either. That type of apprehension could only be caused from tragic, life-changing events that continued to haunt Granger. And Draco knew exactly what that event had been—he'd been present for it, after all.

Deciding against the automatic inclination he had to be rude to her, Draco made way for his bathroom to get ready for the day.

Granger had been back in the kitchen by the time Draco emerged back to his bedroom. Everything was tidy and smelt of vanilla and spice. He was never fond of scents other than his own, but he did not wrinkle his nose at this. He went into his closet, picked an expensive suit from the bunch, and marched out completely put together and attractive as always.

The wards around his flat vibrated, signaling to him that someone had apparated outside his door. He took a deep breath before facing reality.

Granger stood before the door with a hand reaching for the silver handle to let their guests in. She paused in her intention when Draco came in. She turned to him. She wore that black dress Pansy had suggested, the contrast against her skin made her an ethereal white; even her brown hair was far more vibrant against it, loose curls past her shoulders. Her makeup was minimal, as always enhancing her already lovely features. Her eyes found Draco's and for a moment he thought she was going to say something to him, but instead she twisted the handle and exposed Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy outside their son's front door.

The silence was so prominent it buzzed in Draco's ears as his parents entered his flat. His father's eyes narrowed when he looked upon Draco, the color of them becoming a dangerous metal. He had to turn away. His mother, on the other hand, examined the woman that stood opposite her. He was used to that from his mother, but the lack of judgement in her examination was unexpected. Especially since it manifested as soon as she blinked in his direction. And in all of this, Granger appeared as if this terrible choice was finally settling on her. Draco half expected her to find a way to paralyze time so she could prevent this from ever happening. Of course, as it was to be expected from a bloody Gryffindor, she was courageous.

A clearing of Hermione's throat made the present snap back into motion.

"We are happy you could join us this morning," she said ever so politely, a smile illuminating her face. Draco briefly wondered how she managed to effortlessly fake it. "Breakfast will be served in the dining room."

Hermione hooked an arm through Draco's. He managed to suppress his flinch at the contact while she motioned his parents to make way to the designated location. They obliged quietly.

Once they were seated Hermione had conducted a wandless choreography of magic to serve their meal. It reminded Draco of their time at Hogwarts, how the food appeared from nowhere for them to enjoy. Knowing that Delta had definitely not assisted Granger in the cooking process, he was impressed by the spread she produced by her own efforts. She had everything from omelets, baked potatoes, thinly sliced ham, fresh vegetables delicately chopped, crepes (sweet and savory), croissants (with butter or melted chocolate), colorful fruits, tea, coffee, and milk.

Draco smirked to himself; Granger stress cooked.

While he found the amount of food amusing, Narcissa was the first to take a bite. She gave a pleased hum, but the glint in her blue eyes signaled her surprise at how well it tasted.

When it was indirectly stated that breakfast was up to standards, the four adults ate. No conversation was produced for almost half an hour before Lucius was the one to start it. It was all because of the attentiveness this woman gave his son. It was nothing obvious to the untrained eye—but it was in the things that were subtle, Lucius found, that were the loudest. She had poured his tea for him. That, of course, was hardly the reason for his attention; it was what followed that made him frown. She had served Lucius, too, but she had done so plainly, as tea should be drunk. It was how he and Narcissa took it since the beginning of their consumption, but Draco? Draco had picked up the disagreeable manner of taking his tea with milk and honey like he was a child of lesser tastes. It was how, Lucius then noticed, she took it, too.

"I was under the impression you and Miss Granger had no contact since your Hogwarts graduation," Lucius addressed his son. "Surely, if the case had been the opposite, your mother and I would've been informed of it."

Draco refrained from frowning. "We weren't in contact, Father."

"Then how did she end up your wife?"

Draco's grip on his fork tightened. As guilty and shameful as he felt for dragging his parents into the aftermath of his drunken mistakes, he was not accustomed (any longer) to explain his life to them. He was a grown man who lived apart from them. He did not have to share details of every shag he had (or else they would know by now that Mister Greengrass broke all connections with the Malfoy family because he caught Draco doing his wife over the desk in his home office).

"I, for one, think marriage suits you, Draco," said Narcissa, surprising everyone at the table. Her tone suggested muffled delight, but her gaze remained analyzing the environment. It then settled on Hermione. "I was worried he would not settle down, you see. He is past his marriage prime."

"I'm twenty-four, Mother," Draco returned.

"My point exactly. Seven years past the normal wedding age for the members of our family."

"Twenty-four is still young enough," her son informed indignantly.

"Inexperienced, too," said Lucius with obvious disapproval.

"I would hardly say he is inexperienced. Need we bring forth every magazine article written about his dating life?" Narcissa returned with a taunt glittering in her blue eyes before she gave her attention back to the brunette on her son's right. "I do hope you know what you have gotten yourself into, Miss Granger."

"Hermione," corrected the latter. "Please, Mrs. Malfoy, call me Hermione. And, yes, I am aware of what I face beside your son."

Draco picked up a bitterness in Granger's tone. He frowned; not at it, exactly, but at not knowing why something dark loomed over her. It dimmed the warmth of her brown eyes.

"Do you, Miss Granger?" cut in Lucius. "We have a respectability to uphold in this family. Something I care to maintain unblemished."

"Yes, Mister Malfoy, I am acquainted with how far you will go to keep your family pure."

Ah, that was the bitterness, then, that Draco had previously detected. The reminder finally came to the surface—the reminder, for Granger, that the family she had married into was led by a man who worked relentlessly to kill her and her friends years past, who deemed her unworthy of breathing. Now they were all sat together eating crepes and drinking tea.

Draco expected the dining room to break out in chaos, but instead he felt Granger's hand grip his knee beneath the table. From the corner of his eye he saw her battling with the demons the Malfoys had given her. He was not entirely sure what possessed him to do so, but he slyly lowered his hand underneath the table, too. He placed it over hers, locking their fingers.

Hermione took a deep breath.

"Which is why, you will be satisfied to know, Mister Malfoy, that I live a quieter life than most. I am not particularly interested in the limelight."

"Let me make myself clear, Miss Granger. Draco's media attention I excuse because it comes from foolish, fanciful women magazines that hardly hold a shred of reputability—"

"I'm the second most eligible bachelor and men's best dresser for three years now," muttered Draco.

"—Yours stems from every angle, and not just in Britain."

"I do not deny their fixation on my life, but I hardly think they have much to write about, either. I am a full-time Healer. My days consist of St. Mungo's."

"And now my son," supplied Lucius.

"And now your son," Hermione agreed tentatively.

Beneath the table, she pulled her hand away from Draco's.

 **X**

Draco was not entirely sure how he managed to survive the morning without his head being blasted off his shoulders by his father. The rest of breakfast had gone by relatively quiet; his mother and Granger provided the light conversation that acted as the background noise to their time together. The meal and social aspect of it felt like a lifetime to him, but when his parents had made their leave, the time was only an hour and a half.

When the door closed on his parents, Granger took a deep breath and her shoulders slackened from the rigidity they had taken. She glanced once at Draco with an unreadable expression before she went in the direction of his bedroom. Hardly in the mood to discuss the event, he pocketed his wand and took the Floo to his office in Malfoy Industries.

His secretary, Olive Crabbe, (favorite cousin to the late Vincent Crabbe, who Draco felt cornered into hiring when she showed up asking for employment after her family had disowned her for marrying a muggle) greeted him with a happy smile and a glass of scotch at his arrival.

"What's the liquor for?" he asked with a frown. Olive was used to that from him; he had told her countless of times her peppy attitude got on his nerves.

"You said to hold your morning meetings because you were having breakfast with your parents. I can't imagine that went well considering that you had a shotgun wedding."

"What the hell is a shotgun?" Draco took the glass of scotch and downed it. He extended it back to her with a light tap to the side of the glass, signaling an immediate refill.

Olive used her wand to disappear the glass. His frown intensified at her action, but he said nothing about it as he sat behind his desk. She only allowed him to have two alcoholic drinks in stressful days, one in the morning and the other before his departure.

"Never mind that," she dismissed. "How'd it go? Did they like your bride?"

"She's not my bride. She's a mistake."

"Did they like your mistake?" Olive amended with a roll of her eyes.

"Any mail?"

"Oh, _come on_! Tell me how it went—or at least who the unfortunate witch is. Oh, God, it's not a witch, is it? Well, welcome to the muggle side, Malfoy!"

Chucking an old Witch Weekly edition into the rubbish bin (Pansy insisted on sending him every issue he graced the cover of), Draco aimed a warning glare at his secretary. "I will demote you to custodial duties and report to the Ministry that you're harboring a muggle in Wizardying London. And it's _Mister Malfoy_ , you insolent wench."

Olive snorted, but knew well enough to diverge the topic (not that he would tipoff the Ministry that her husband was a resident in their magical society, but he made her scrub toilets before when he was annoyed at her). She handed him a stack of mail.

"Oh," she spun on her heels before she was out the door, "Your Evaluator Floo Called earlier to cancel your session tomorrow. Apparently her friend got married the previous weekend and she's hunting for a wedding gift in Brazil. She's rescheduled for two weeks."

"How many times have I told you not to have an entire fucking conversation with her?"

"Luna's adorable—and a friend," said Olive before leaving her boss to his own, troubled thoughts.

Although he was angry Lovegood was now apparently informed about Granger and his marriage, Draco was pleased she cancelled their next session. He absolutely loathed when she scheduled their meetings so close together. She always said it was to maintain their progress, but he wondered if she was secretly sadistic and enjoyed toying with the minds of others.

He took the first letter from the pile. The Ministry crest was on the front; it was from Blaise. When he opened it a small, thin vial fell on his lap. The note attached to it read:

 _'Send the memory of ol' Lucius' face when he saw you and Hermione together.'_

Cursing, Draco shoved the vial back into the paper. He crushed it into a ball, the glass shattering inside. He threw it across the room and, for once, decided to give his undivided attention to his work.

Most of the day went on uninterrupted for him. Olive had come in twice (to bring him lunch and more mail), and he managed to get all his research and presentation sorted for the next day's meeting with Malfoy Industries' partners. Before calling it a day, however, Draco had to get a few papers signed by his father. He could have Olive get the task done, but he also knew that sooner or later he would have to face his father.

With his last glass of scotch for the day, Draco gathered the paperwork after slipping on his sleek blazer. He took the lift to the floor above his. The level was mostly empty, save for a few employees who averted their eyes when they saw Draco approach. His father's executive secretary (a new one for the month) did not bother to halt him from walking in without being announced.

Draco was surprised not to find his father alone. Sitting opposite him was Cristobal Rivera, owner and lead potioneer of _Tierra Pura_ , the Mexican potions lab Draco was very interested investing in.

"Draco," greeted Cristobal as he rose from his chair. "I was just on my way to see you. I've brought the numbers you requested of my lab's account."

Typically, Draco would have reacted to Cristobal's presence in a much friendlier manner, but him being in his father's office irked Draco. It was not like Lucius to interfere with the work he did for the company. He had never taken an interest, in fact, on the faces of their investments. Lucius only cared about the promising fortunes Malfoy Industries would earn from their business connections.

"I asked Mister Rivera for a private meeting before the one with our partners tomorrow," said Lucius, leaning against his chair. "His endeavors seem very promising."

" _Gracias, Señor Malfoy,_ " returned Cristobal. "Well, I had the meeting and now delivered this file. I better be off. My wife is six months pregnant and not adjusting well to this harsh British weather. I promised her a romantic dinner, and unless I want to sleep with the dogs tonight, I better make it on time."

"Do so, Rivera. One's wife is the last person a man should anger. We will see you in the morning," Lucius said to the man.

There had been a hint of a smile on Lucius' face that soon vanished from existence when Cristobal was gone. His austere expression was back on and aimed at his son.

"You are going to be propositioning a fairytale to our partners tomorrow, Draco," his tone was severe. "How the hell do you think that will go? You are going to make a fool of yourself again."

"I'm not a fool," snapped Draco. "And Rivera's lab is a gold mine in the making. Father, you have seen the extraordinary work he does with so little. His work with natural compounds is not only minimizing the toxins released— "

"Enough," interrupted Lucius. "Save your presentation for the meeting. Look, Draco, I have never doubted your ability to see greatness in the companies we invest in. You have acquired countless of multi-million accounts for Malfoy Industries. But you lack agency."

Draco felt a growl vibrate in his chest.

"Do you think me wrong?" asked Lucius. "You are nothing but a child to them. Yes, the name of the company is yours, but we are hardly the true owners of it."

"Yes," hissed Draco. "I'm aware that we had to sell most of our shares after the war."

"And we rose back to the top after that. Still, our board is composed of enemies, Draco. They will gladly steal Malfoy Industries from you as soon as I decide to retire. Then there are others who do not want you to succeed because they do not trust us. Those will destroy our legacy soon as we turn our backs."

This, of course, Draco knew all too well. No one ever said the life of a convicted Death Eater was easy post-war. Nor did anyone want to make it so. Yes, with a modern world driven by media and drama, Draco and all other offspring of Death Eaters (especially those with social standing) were the belle of the ball, but that was as far as their acceptance went. They were good for entertainment, like trained elephants for a circus act. When it came to the real world, no one wanted them to come out. They wanted all of those with the mark of the devil to stay chained to the shadows.

"What will you have me do, Father?" Draco sighed. "I do my job, and I do it well. They will be the fools if we pass up on this opportunity because of a grudge. If, then, that's their intent, there's nothing I can do."

"There is," said Lucius. "And you have already found it." When his son appeared confused, he clarified with, "You married Hermione Granger."

" _No!_ " Immediately, Draco marched up to his father. "I will not use my marriage with Granger for our benefit. I rather let this company crumble than to stay beside her."

Lucius laughed. "I told your mother this marriage was a sham. Miss Granger would never fraternize with the enemy unless they were deemed a changed person. Not to mention that you prefer women of prestige, women that are not yours to have. Tell me, how did she end up with our name?"

"It was a mistake that I will fix, Father."

"No. It is a mistake you will leave be. Understand what I am saying to you, Draco. Hermione Granger is your invitation to a world you will never get access to on your own. She will change everything for you." Lucius picked up the file Cristobal Rivera had brought for Draco, extending it to him. "If you really want to see this revolutionary project to the end, then make your marriage public."


	6. The Sacrifice

The meeting with the partners of Malfoy Industries was going so well Draco could see those creepy, heinous old bastards practically orgasming in their chairs when he and Cristobal Rivera gave the estimated earning the company would make in the investment with _Tierra Pura_. Draco was so sure he had convinced the partners, he even pulled out the legal documents for them to sign so the presentation could conclude and a round of bourbon could be had after giving a speech promising success. That, of course, was before the main, heinous bastard of the lot cleared his throat.

"You are a modern thinker, Draco," said Wulfric Macnair, the eldest son of one very imprisoned Walden Macnair. While daddy dearest was executing wild beasts for the Ministry as a very interesting hobby (as one could do when they were worth millions of galleons), Wulfric was in America, working for the Magical Congress. What exactly he did there, of course, was a mystery to all. He remained there even when the Dark Lord came back from hell to lead his servants to war. When Walden Macnair was caught after the Hogwarts battle, Wulfric returned to Britain to step up as the patriarch of the family. That job description included being a despicable, headache-inducing twat Lucius and Draco Malfoy had to constantly deal with. He was particularly less of an arsehole to Lucius, seeing as a history of early friendship now made them passive-aggressive acquaintances, but as for Draco—well, he was positively certain Wulfric wanted to destroy him.

Draco tightened his fingers on the thin stack of folders. "Well, unlike yourself, Macnair, I _am_ young. Modern. And definitely more attractive," he added with a smirk, though his silver eyes burned black with hatred. A few partners chuckled, but Lucius narrowed his gaze at his son. "It's my job to think outside of the box."

"I have heard of outside-the-box thinkers making their fortunes with innovative ideas these days," continued Wulfric, grinning back as if the banter being exchanged was one with a friend. "Of course, if we look at the statistics of their success, the numbers are relatively small. These thinkers are rare, lucky— _el señor Rivera_ one of them, naturally, or he would not be standing before us." Cristobal bowed his head in gratitude, but Draco saw him ball his hand and stuff it into his pocket. "However, the people sitting before you come from old money. We are businessmen who invest in traditions and family. We have maintained our fortunes because security permits it."

"Security?" Draco questioned with a laugh. "That's another word for comfort, is it not? Gentlemen, statistics also show that values of a stock can plummet if that company refuses to revolutionize. We live in a world that is fast changing, the consumers with it. If we do not provide quality and up-to-date products and services we will lose our standing as a multi-million galleon company. Of course," he added with bite, "we can follow tradition and see how far along that can take us. But if history is anything to go by, remaining selective and narrow-minded does not always work out for the best. If it did...well, it would be Wulfric's father that sat among us."

It was completely uncalled for to aim so low, even Draco was aware of that, but in the fight against Macnair nothing was off limits. It should be petty for a fifty-something year old man to go head to head with someone half his age, but this was just how things were. One had to have the upperhand. _Tierra Pura_ was dear to Draco's heart, and Macnair knew that all too well. He would find any loophole, any weakness to hit and inject doubt so the partners would withdraw their consent of investment. Naturally, Draco had to protect this business venture by any means.

"Now we deliberate," Lucius Malfoy's voice rung firm and low throughout the meeting room. "Those who are in favor of investing in Rivera's potioneer company please vote now."

There were fifteen partners, including the Malfoys, and they were almost equally in divide on whom to follow. Some of them were businessmen who had a hold in Malfoy Industries simply to make money despite loathing the family. Then there were those who were old friends still latching on to a history of pureblood mania and superiority that kept them loyal. Still, in the end, like most things in the corporate world, it all came down to money. They would look past Draco leading the march so long as their vaults were generously filled.

Seven voted no. Seven voted yes.

"Macnair," called Lucius to the man at the opposite end of the table. "Your vote."

All eyes turned to the man. Draco gritted his teeth, fingers twitching for the wand in his pocket. He was hardly surprised the deciding vote would rest in Macnair's hands. He was a sadistic fucker that way, of course.

"One month," said Wulfric. "We give a month of a trial period to prove that our investments will be fruitful. I will sign Rivera's lab to our company today if in the following month, Draco, the numbers you just swore by check out. If not, we pull out completely."

When all legal papers were signed by the fifteen partners, Macnair was the first to saunter off. As the room began to empty, Lucius called for Draco to remain in his seat.

"I hope you have considered what we discussed yesterday," said Lucius.

An automatic frown creased Draco's forehead. "I told you once, Father, I am not going to use my current misfortune to gain standing with the partners. I will do my work as I've always done so, and let it speak for itself."

"That's a lovely sentiment," rebuffed Lucius with snark. "I am sure it will win over the board."

" _Father_ —"

"You heard Macnair. Regardless of present circumstances, of the blasted past, we are men with family values. We are hardworking, ruthless, overachieving men. You are a _boy_. Macnair will not tire of convincing the partners of such. Be as bold as you want, but you will have to learn to compromise to get what you want in the real world."

A growl was simmering in Draco's chest, desperate to get out and release venom. It would have, too, if it not had been for Cristobal lingering in the corner of the meeting room, giving the Malfoys privacy to discuss their personal matters while he gathered his lab's documents. His presence did not go unnoticed by Lucius, either.

"Why don't you take the day off," added the elder Malfoy. "You and Rivera can finish the remaining details over lunch. In fact, you should ask your wife to join you, Rivera. That way she can get to know more of my son and his wife. It is important, after all, for both our families to be well acquainted now that we will be doing business with each other."

"Draco," said Cristobal, his brows furrowing in surprise, "I wasn't aware you were married, amigo. My apologies."

With gritted teeth (and a loud _fuck-you_ playing in his eyes meant for his father), Draco turned to the Mexican man and attempted to smile courtly. "It happened recently, Cristobal. I have been so caught up in finalizing this affair there has not been much time for talk of anything but the future of Tierra Pura with Malfoy Industries."

"Of course. I do admire you for your dedication. Still, your padre is right. We have neglected this friendship for business for far too long. I will love to meet your wife, just as I'm sure my Kisa will, too."

"For this lunch it will be impossible. Gra—My wife is a Healer. All of her time is spent in the hospital."

Cristobal clapped Draco on the back, nodding once in understanding. "Well, next time I am back in the country we will have to get together for dinner, then."

Draco helped his friend gather the documents before leaving the meeting room. As they did, he did not miss his father's plotting smirk take over his pale features.

 **X**

"I don't really understand why I'm here," Olive said with an exasperated sigh as Draco handed her a bottle of red wine. "This is very inappropriate."

Draco snorted back at her as he walked out of the wine aisle, her trailing behind him with a trolley. After having lunch with Cristobal, Draco realized there was so much his friend was waging by partnering up with Malfoy Industries. If it was any other endeavor, he would gladly let it fall apart than to lower himself to Granger and their unspeakable sin. However, Cristobal was Draco's friend for some years now, someone he admired for his compassion of earth's elements and how to use them in their purest forms to create remedies for diseases. Cristobal had offers from all over the globe, especially in his beloved Mexico. He knew Cristobal wanted to keep Tierra Pura strictly local, an essence of his culture and his people, and Draco made promises of keeping that even if he signed with Malfoy Industries. Cristobal saw something in Draco (so he said the night he agreed to the latter's proposition), so he gathered all the money in his possession to shine and wrap Tierra Pura in a bow in order to present it to Malfoy Industries. For his sacrifice, Draco would have to bite the bullet.

When he returned to his office, he called Olive in, ordering her to cancel all meetings for the day and to grab her coat. She was to accompany him to Muggle London and assist him in purchasing items that can sweep any girl off her feet. She, of course, called him an idiot for thinking chocolate and wine would help him woo someone, but Draco knew that it would take even the smallest gesture to breach the gap between him and Granger.

"How is this any more inappropriate than you telling me about your sex injuries the night of your honeymoon with Cyrus?" returned Draco.

"Okay, first off," huffed Olive, "I was giving you advice. It's not like I was drawing you detailed pictures of how it happened. Secondly, that conversation only came up because I walked in on you banging some random girl on the balcony of your office. She could've easily fallen off and gotten killed and you'd be in prison—most likely as someone's bitch."

"You've been around Muggles for too long, Olive. Azkaban cells are individual and minimize contact with other prisoners. I would know, I was in one for two weeks, remember?"

She rolled her dark eyes at him. "You only get to use the Azkaban card once with me, remember? I sure hope this was worth it." He made a noise that sounded almost like a chuckle, so she knew they were moving past _that_ uncomfortable subject. "Honestly, Draco, you're not going to get anywhere with pretenses. Just be yourself—your stubborn, ambitious, smarmy self. Someone is bound to fall in love with that, and who better than your wife?"

Draco stopped looking at stuffed animals to give his secretary an offended, slightly disgusted look. This was not about romance in any way, shape, or form. This was about _business_ (about the consequences of his drinking, but he really was not going to start pointing a finger at himself). He just needed to play the part long enough for it to be believable.

"Well, well," came the voice of a woman both Draco and Olive knew all too well. While Draco sighed, Olive groaned and contemplated taking out her wand to Avada herself in the middle of a muggle shop. They both eventually turned to the opposite end of the aisle, and sure enough, in her sleek, glamorous style, Daphne Greengrass smirked at the two.

In the past three years no one had seen Daphne without her photographer shadowing her every move. It was no surprise, then, that he was also present, pulling out a small camera and snapping a picture of Daphne's current target.

"Are you personally following me around now, Greengrass?" Draco asked with his famous haughty attitude underlining his words.

"Well, I haven't seen the reporter that usually does the dirty work—dirty meaning anything involving you, of course—since he went to Greece to write about the party you and Nott were throwing there last month. Any idea where he is?"

"Definitely not Obliviated and chasing his new dreams of being a drag queen with expensive tastes," returned Draco, malice glimmering in his eyes.

"You know," added Olive, "this can be considered harassment. Draco does have an in with the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. As much as you like to think so, Greengrass, you are not technically considered press—on account of ninety percent of _Witch Weekly_ articles being used to wipe arseholes."

Daphne did not lose her smirk despite her blue eyes darkening to a navy. "You're always so lovely, Olive. I must tell your mother as much next time I see her for tea. Oh, no, wait. You're dead to her. Hmm, pity."

Olive reached for the bottle of wine in the trolley. Before she could smash it over Daphne's head, Draco grabbed the base of it to pull it away. Olive glared murderously at him, her chest heaving, but he did not acknowledge this. Instead, he said to Daphne, "why are you here? It's not like you to be in Muggle London."

Daphne put a hand on her photographer's shoulder, silently ordering him to stop snapping away. "For charity a reader challenged me to live a day as a Muggle would, so that's exactly what I'm doing. I'm looking for necessities in this circus—"

"It's called Sainsbury," corrected Olive, but she was ignored.

"—and I just happened to stumble upon our very own Draco Malfoy in what seems like an affair with his secretary? Take a picture, Ramond," she commanded to the photographer as she delightfully laughed at the reaction Olive and Draco made. "Obviously I know this is not the case. You have far better tastes than Olive Crabbe. And she, well, has a fancy for Muggles, doesn't she? What's your husband's name? Cyrus Amal? Not really important, now is it, but gossip _is_ gossip. It sells like freshly baked bread—especially when you have incriminating photos."

"I'm going to kill her," said Olive to Draco as she started pulling her long, dark hair up at the top of her head. "Cyrus is an officer in Kensington. He can smuggle me out of prison."

Draco reached for her wrist, keeping her in place. For a brief second he had to inhale deeply, his mind buzzing with protest at the words that were forming and piling at the tip of his tongue. "We aren't having an affair. Olive is helping me buy things for a surprise I'm preparing for... _my wife_."

Olive turned to him, appalled. "Malfoy, what the—"

"Your wife?" squeaked out Daphne. "Who the hell would marry _you_?"

"Haven't talked to Astoria, then?" asked Draco. "She knows all about it."

Daphne frowned at the information of her little sister knowing the biggest piece of gossip since Millicent Bulstrode started transitioning to become a man earlier this year. "Don't you lie to me, Malfoy," she hissed threateningly. "If I run this and it is completely false, I _will_ ruin your life."

"You've got tickets to the Holyhead Harpies match, don't you?" He could not believe he was selling himself out right now. "Because that's where you will get your exclusive."

 **X**

After an incredibly long day at the hospital, Hermione Flooed into Malfoy's flat in hopes to find him asleep on the couch, protesting against her stay as usual. She was not in the mood to argue with him, nor to hear how she needed to go back to her own place, her own bed, how they needed to get a divorce— _blah_ , _blah_ , _blah_. Instead, her purse fell from her grasp when she saw him sitting at a table in his living room, waiting for her.

The light of the room had been dimmed to give just a soft glow in order to let the candles strategically placed on the table shine like tiny stars collected in a jar. Red roses filled three intricate vases, and in the middle rested a bucket of ice with a bottle of wine cooling inside. Food had been served, and its aroma filled the room, lacing in with the gentle melody being played by the record player.

"What did you do?" Hermione demanded, approaching the table both warily and upset. "I swear, Malfoy, if you really did sacrifice Crookshanks to a pack of hippogriffs—"

A frown briefly took over Draco's face. He had forgotten she owned that blasted, furry beast until it leaped out from behind the couch earlier that morning, sinking its teeth into his shin and refusing to let go. He had been about to slam it against a wall to knock it unconscious, but Granger had _calmly_ called it from the bedroom and it sauntered off like it had not been intent on eating Draco alive, the fucking bastard. He, obviously, threatened to sell it to the questionable meat pie restaurant near the Ministry, but his vows were now void of any actual immediate action. He needed to put up with the animal—and her cat, too.

"Relax," he begun to say, "it's fine. Delta set up a little nest for the thing in the laundry room."

Her brown gaze was still narrowed in suspicion. " _Then?_ "

Draco had to bite down on his own tongue to keep him from vomiting at the blasphemy he was about to spill. After a stretched second of collecting courage (that three shots of tequila may have given him before she arrived) he said, "I thought about what you've said. Maybe there's a reason why we ended up together. Granted we've been trying to destroy each other since we were children, but we can move past that to see what's here, can't we?" He stood from the table at the center of his living room, walking over to hall where she had remained. He reached for her hands, uncrossing her arms from her chest. "And if you really are pregnant, then we owe it to the baby to try."

Draco slid his hands up her arms, around her shoulders, and then closed his eyes when they carefully landed on her waist. He leaned in, pulling her flush against his chest in order to press his lips on hers, but she immediately tugged away from him. When his eyes fluttered open hers were agape, shock and bewilderment flustering her all at once.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"What are you—just _wait_ , Malfoy!" Hermione squeaked when he held on to her again, burying his face in her neck. She felt him breathe her in for a fleeting moment, but then his mouth was warm against her skin.

"Wait for what, Granger? You wanted me to jump on board with this. Well, now I am on board."

She wiggled her way from his grasp once again, putting a hand up to keep him at a distance. She took in a deep breath, trying to get her ideas in place. When her famous determination flashed in her warm eyes she said, "I do want you to try. For the baby. But there has to be rules. _Boundaries_."

Draco scoffed loudly. "You mean before or after we shagged all over this flat? Or when you moved in without so much as a bloody invitation?"

She frowned at him. "This—your mood swings—is my next point. How do I know this isn't just some ploy so you can reel me in and then murder me? Maybe you've finally convinced Delta to poison the food."

"Murdering you would be far too exhausting and time consuming, Granger. I have a business to run. I don't have the time to plan it all out, and believe me, _if_ I was planning it, it'd be spectacular. However," Draco added quickly when she started turning red from anger, "I am standing here before you at two in the morning with dinner and wine as a peace offering. I'm trying to show you that I'm willing to try. Now, the question here is, are you going to take it? Or are we going to argue for the next month—or possibly for the rest of our lives if we really are having a baby together?"

Hermione was not often confused in her lifetime, let alone by other people. But here she was, standing before the one person that was her constant second at wits and brains. He was also the same person that would take any presented opportunity to humiliate her, to win at any costs so long as she stayed down. But he was right. They were married now. And he was offering his acceptance to a truce she had asked him to make when all of this began.

With a deep sigh, pushing back her suspicions, she said, "Okay, Malfoy. But there will be rules."

"Of course there will," he said with a roll of his eyes.

"First of all, we will respect each other. That means no more of your foul language. Secondly, we assimilate to our living arrangements as best as we can. So no more sleeping on the couch. And lastly," she whispered as he took her hand, leading her back to the table he had set out for her. He pulled out the chair with his free hand, about to help her to her place, when she added, " _no sex_. At all."

Flashes of their night spent together resurfaced for Draco. He felt her warm, shivering body flush against his, her heart pounding inside her chest as he slipped inside of her, connecting them both in a way neither ever thought possible. He heard her call out for him, a sound close to the perfect song—but he stops himself from thinking up more images. That was a one time thing. A mistake produced by the influence of the devil's drink.

Draco smirked at her. "I'm sure I can contain myself for a month, Granger." He pushed her chair in, about to return to his, when his sense of arsehole-ness kicked in and he found himself placing a delicate kiss on her neck. "I hope you can, too."

He didn't miss the way she gasped and shivered.

* * *

 **AN: Hey, guys! So sorry for the VERY late update. I have been swamped with work. This chapter seems more like a filler to me, but I hope you guys enjoy it anyway! Much love to you all. And I hope you had a lovely Thanksgiving. :D**


	7. Witch Weekly Official

The morning came with a soft, gentle haze of orange and pink. Sunlight poured into Draco's bedroom, touching everything as it tickled his face, feathering over his eyelids. Doing what it set out to do, the sunlight reduced when his silver eyes came to life, blinking slowly until full consciousness had taken him hostage. With a silent yawn, he stretched his arms, turning over to fetch his first glass of water (with a squeeze of lemon) Delta always left on his nightstand. His morning routine was, of course, interrupted when he turned to his side and got a mouthful of vanilla-scented hair. Anger bubbled in his chest, ready to burst, but he held his tongue when his wife (oh, yes, he said _wife_ ) rolled into his arms.

It was to no one's surprise that Draco was not the cuddling type. He was never shown that sort of affection as a child, and he definitely did not adopt it as a grown man. He did not see the purpose of it; they were adults, why the hell did these cuddling sorts enjoy being held like they were infants seeking the safety of their mothers? No, no. Draco would not have any of that. Naturally, when one of his conquests wanted to canoodle after hours of passionate sex, he threw them their clothing while saying, 'if you want to hug something, there's a pet shop around the corner. Find a puppy. Goodbye now.'

But Granger was not a conquest. She was his wife—his greatest mistake to date.

Of course, Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger were synonymous with catastrophe—them being naturally inclined to destroy each other and all, but in that very silent, unnatural moment, disaster slept. Her guard was down, making her gentle to the eye. There was no judging, righteous glint to look down on him, or no pestering, all-knowing voice to remind him of his series of bad calls. It was just her, calm and strangely beautiful. Warm. Was that a thing Draco wasn't even aware people could be? Not in the sense of body heat, per se, but the _feeling_ itself. It was almost like comfort.

It had been a few days since Draco announced to Granger that he wanted to try and make their current situation work. He thought it would be entirely impossible to feign such acceptance—bloody Brightest Witch of the Age being his wife and all—but it had been doable. Frustrating by all intents and purposes, but not to the point that jumping off the tallest tower seemed like the better option. Unsurprisingly, she was hesitant about it the next day. She kept tiptoeing around his flat like he planted death traps on every other tile, but when Delta assured her everything was perfectly safe, Granger stopped clutching on to her wand and released the suspicion in her brown eyes. She let herself be courted (in a sense) by him.

With her guard dropped, Draco was able to get her to adopt friendly (of sorts) conversations with him. He got to know a little more about her—dark secrets weren't revealed, of course, nor were there any trips down memory lane, but it was something. He knew the little things, like her favorite color, book, song, the way she ate her toast (peanut butter and slices of banana), the lamenting haze in her eyes when the skies were grey, and the mug of hot chocolate with tiny marshmallows she had when it had been a tough day at the hospital. Nothing of it helped Draco crush her, but it was not intolerable all together.

Sensing eyes on her, Hermione woke up to him. It took her a moment to realize why he had been so close to her, to the point that she could count his blonde lashes, and immediately tugged away.

"Morning," she offered with a raspy voice.

Draco hummed in response, watching her as she stretched her limbs out. She yawned, eyes heavy with sleep, but she still pulled the sheets from herself and stood. She was in a nightgown, not entirely frumpy, but definitely boring; she opened the curtains to allow more of the rare sunshine in. She smiled at the rays, letting them illuminate her for a moment before turning back to Malfoy. She fetched the glass of water on her side of the bed and handed it to him.

"I feel like cooking today," she added, careful not to touch his fingers when he took the glass. "Anything in particular you might want?"

"You're in a good mood," Draco pointed out instead. "You're not usually a morning person."

Hermione shrugged. "It's the weekend. I have a day off. And I get to see Ginny play for the Quidditch semi-finals. There's a lot to look forward to today."

Draco scoffed. For her, maybe. For him? Well, today was the day the world would get a front row seat to TGGFO (The Grandiose Granger Fuck-Over).

"I know," she said with a smile, pulling him away from the internal groaning and skull-bashing he was having as she slid on his navy robe without realizing, "I'll make stuffed pancakes. You loved the ones I brought back from my parents' place, remember?"

She left the bedroom before Draco had a chance to respond. The way she glided past with her fluffed-out curls, her bright, warm eyes, and her sweet scent lingering behind made her become part of the room. Even if everything around reflected the cool, dark, unapproachable shade the owner was. It somehow worked. It shouldn't—not with how much he despised her, how they were opposites on every spectrum, and how this would only be a momentary thing. But it did.

He kicked off the sheets and made way to his kitchen. He pretended to be collecting the morning mail from the counter his owl Hamlet brought in. She did not notice him as she sang along to a tune in her head, mixing contents in a giant glass bowl. Delta appeared from the other end of the kitchen with a grocery bag, pulling out fresh strawberries and bananas for Granger to give her approval on. The house-elf also didn't notice Draco. It made him frown. Delta was always very dedicated to every move her master gave, but now that her work was split between two people she tended to prefer the new member.

Draco had gotten ready for the day while she finished their meal. Once he was immaculately dressed (as always), he sat at the end of the dining table. She took the one on his left, just as she had done when they first started sharing one-on-one meals. He still found it odd. His mother had never been that close to his father for meals; it was only proper she take the seat at the other end. But this was Granger, after all. She did whatever the hell she pleased.

Breakfast was somewhat of a silent affair before Hermione gasped, startling Draco from his place beside her. "I almost forgot," she ignored his frown, "your mother Floo Called while you were showering."

Draco rose a sharp brow. "And?"

"She asked if we could clear an hour for lunch next Wednesday."

" _We?_ "

Hermione nodded, taking a casual sip of her tea. "I told her I could be free and she instructed specifically for you to choose the place."

"No," said Draco, frowning further. "We are not having lunch with my mother, Granger. This isn't a fucking— _Sure_ ," he stopped himself, gritting his teeth when annoyance started to cloud over her face. "Lunch sounds great. I'll look into something nearby St. Mungo's."

"Good," she said as she stood, something about her smile reflected off like a smirk as she walked away.

Draco dropped his head on the tabletop, banging it twice.

By the time Hermione strolled out from his bedroom she looked cozy and excited, completely unaware that Draco had gulped down three shots of vodka while he waited for her. He kept his lips pressed into a tight line when he followed her out of his flat to the nearest apparition point.

When they arrived to the stadium that would be hosting the Quidditch Semi-Finals, Draco kept looking behind his shoulder, scanning the crowd for Daphne Greengrass and the photographer that was never a step too far from her. She was missing, but what was not was the curious eyes of every onlooker as he trailed after Granger like he was lost (that, or they thought he was creeping up behind her just to kill her). There was a lot about himself that Draco would deny profusely because people were wrong, they judged him on speculations, but, regrettably, he was a fucking coward (sometimes). He kept wanting to turn back, to hide in his flat until this entire thing blew over, but he thought about bloody Mcnair, Daphne, Granger, his father—then he ran headfirst into Potter and the Weasel, and he knew spite would have to get him through this.

Granger marched into the viewing box, smiling bright and adoringly at the gathered group. Just as she was pulling away from Mrs. Weasley, she froze when all eyes drifted to the man behind her. The harsh, cold weather finally seemed to prickle her skin, turning her pale at the surprise she had brought along with her. Of course, like it was in her bloody nature, she was slightly better at everything than Draco was; she summoned her courage far quicker than he ever could, taking a step back, wrapping a hand around his elbow before leaning against his side.

"Family," she called confidently, "this is my husband. Draco, this is my family."

Draco didn't know what the hell Granger was expecting—he didn't even know what the hell he was expecting himself—but the pliable silence that formed between them and the group had not been it. In fact, he really expected some form of violence, something where he was forced to use his wand and get a good curse in at whoever dared to launch at him first (ehem, fucking Weasel), but all of them remained still. He thought this would be the gist of the encounter, but he was surprised when Mrs. Weasley broke the silence.

The plump woman approached them, placing a gentle, caring hand on Granger's cheek. There was something quite tender in her brown eyes as she scanned Granger's for any sign that she did not want to be beside Draco. When she did not find it, Mrs. Weasley turned to give Draco the best smile she could offer. "I'm glad you can join us, dear," she said to him, no form of dislike in her tone. "Come, come. Fleur and I have prepared a hearty meal for the occasion. I'll get you a nice hot cider."

Draco threw Hermione a look of panic as Mrs. Weasley pulled him in the direction of the table set up with all sorts of meats, vegetables, desserts, and alcoholic beverages for the adults (milk, tea, and water for the pregnant women also present). Hermione had to hide her giggle behind her hand before moving along to greet the gathered group. She knew they were all beyond incredulous at her news, but they all were gracious enough to avoid letting her know just how wrong they thought her choice had been. All except for Ron, of course. After kissing Pansy on the cheek as a hello, she moved to wrap her arms around him, but he took a step back, scowling.

Pansy rolled her eyes. "We've been through this."

"No," Ron scoffed into the beer in his hand, "you've been through it and I pretended to listen. I _never_ agreed to condone her stupidity."

"I'm standing right here, Ronald," Hermione pointed out, eyes narrowing back at him. "If you've got something to say, then spit it out."

Ron opened his mouth, cheeks red in frustration, but Pansy placed a manicured hand over his lips. The warning in her dark eyes flashed dangerously, and he knew when to bite down on his tongue.

"The girls and I want to come around yours sometime next week," she told Hermione with a friendlier tone. "We have wedding gifts we want to give you and Draco."

Hermione wanted to frown at Pansy, but caught Fleur and Audrey's eyes from where they stood with their respective husbands. "Draco," she called, earning his attention as he nodded along to whatever story it was Mister Weasley had cornered him with. "It seems like we have wedding gifts to receive. What'd you say we have them over at ours for dinner as a show of gratitude?"

Draco made a deal with himself to handle Granger as best as he could, but he drew the fucking line when it came to the Weasley mob. He wanted to find the words to say just that, but Fate had a way of fucking him over. This came in the form of Blaise Zabini.

Blaise strolled into the box, immaculately dressed, pressing kisses to the cheeks of the first woman he saw, all while one Luna bloody Lovegood was attached to his hand. He staggered back a step when he saw Draco glaring back at him, but composed himself within the second.

"So," Draco hissed at his best mate when the latter approached him, carefully placing an array of snacks on a plate to avoid drawing attention to them, "seems like brunch with your mother was cancelled. Unless...Is that what you fucking call Lovegood? I mean, I know you have mummy issues, Zabini, but—"

"Fuck off," Blaise gritted out, popping a cherry tomato into his mouth, smiling back at Luna when she joined Pansy in talking Hermione into getting together (he knew she had bought the new Malfoy couple the skull of a panther that was said to enhance the fertility of those who possessed it). "You weren't supposed to be here yet."

"You weren't supposed to be shagging my Evaluator, either," Draco returned just as harshly. "When the hell were you going to tell me about that, Zabini?"

Blaise jabbed the end of his plastic fork into Draco's chest before reeling it back. "My love life is none of your fucking concern, mate," he warned. "And I told you, you're on your own with this. _You_ got plastered, _you_ married Hermione, _you_ deal with it."

Draco felt the urge to whip out his wand and curse Blaise down a peg, but the unmistakable voice of the Minister of Magic commencing the game echoed around the viewing box. Soon enough, cheers boomed throughout the stadium, spurring on those in the box who were present to support Ginny Weasley (all of it was like nails to a chalkboard, really). As they all shuffled over to the railing, waving flags with the Holyhead Harpies emblem, Draco found himself beside Granger again.

Wordlessly, she took his hand to lead them to their seats (right beside fucking Potter).

"We're betting on Gin getting disqualified," George Weasley chimed in behind them, pushing his head out between Hermione and Harry's shoulders to talk to that entire row. "Neville's got ten galleons on the first twenty minutes, Zabini on the first thirty, and Bill on the first ten. Charlie and Ron put down fifteen galleons for the next five minutes. Any takers?"

Hermione smacked a palm on George's forehead. "Don't be a prat."

"Oi, Granger," George swatted her shoulder, "It's just business. Merlin's balls. Watch yourself around this one, Malfoy," he then gave his attention to the blonde man focusing too intently on the match, "she'll rip off your bits without even lifting a finger."

"Hermione's right," Harry said as Malfoy scoffed at the comment, "it's wrong to bet against Ginny. This match is important to get the Harpies to the finals. She won't blow it."

George raised a brow at him. "So no bets, then?"

"Twenty on her whacking the opponent's Chaser with a beater's bat _after_ the game," Harry grinned, pulling out his money from the pocket of his trousers.

"Smart man." George saluted him before sitting back down against his own chair.

Draco was not aware Granger was still holding his hand until he felt her fingers slip from his. With a quirked brow, he watched her reach into the pocket of his coat and pull out a few galleons.

"The Chaser _and_ the Keeper after the game," she said, eyes locked forward, but her hand over her head.

George laughed, taking the money, and Draco almost let a grin tilt his lips upward.

As the match between the Holyhead Harpies and the Appleby Arrows raged on, Draco could not stop himself from studying the situation he was caught in. Of course, Draco had spent years proclaiming he would rather snog a Dementor than to be twenty feet in proximity to Potter and his entourage (he couldn't even stand being in the same fucking planet as them, but it was not like Mars was habitable, either), but there was something about them. It was like stepping into a different world, one he had not known existed. He liked to mock their get-togethers, insulting their poor tastes in everything (from food to company), but everything the moment possessed was entirely new to him (and curiosity killed the Slytherin).

Mrs. and Mister Weasley allowed their son Charlie (the bloke who people kept asking about his dragons) to paint their faces in green and gold; Mrs. Weasley had her left cheek marked with her daughter's number while Mister Weasley's forehead had the Harpies' golden claw. They laughed as Charlie worked, at each other and because the moment seemed to allow it. Beside them, Bill kept shouting at the Keeper of the Harpies, ordering her to block the damn posts better than she was allegedly doing. When his hands were not slapped over his face to muffle out colorful, explicit curses, they were on Fleur, caressing her swollen belly or rubbing a thumb over the base of her neck. Fleur found the sight of her husband all riled up far more entertaining than the actual match.

The pompous one (Percy Weasley) shifted his attention between the game, cheering for Ginny whenever the others did, and talking animately with Luna Lovegood about the Wizengamot's newest proposal on strengthening the Department of International Magical Cooperation. His wife, (Audrey Weasley), a quiet, mousy sort of woman, balanced a plate of cake over her pregnant stomach, chatting happily with Hannah Abbot about the curious wave of tourists the Leaky Cauldron was experiencing. While Lovegood was entertained (somehow) by the prim weasel, Zabini was off at the table spread, refilling his mug with Butterbeer; he and Longbottom were discussing the weaknesses in the Arrows' defense, hoping Ginny (as captain and fucking terrifying, competitive arsehole) would find and exploit them.

Still inseparable after all these years (though Draco wagered it was romance rather than friendship, even if Pansy did smack him over the head and told him to stop spreading that rumour around), Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnegan were about to throw themselves over the railing, one angry at the bad call against the Harpies that was just made, and the other trying to catch the attention of some young witch in the viewing box beside theirs. Weasel was sat at the furthest edge of the box, intent on keeping his distance from the new Malfoys (fucking shudder), actively ignoring them, but he was heavily invested in the game, too. He kept shouting at his sister, directing her to the snitch every time it swooshed by their box. Pansy sat on his lap, cussing out any player of the Arrows that crossed their line of vision (Draco wondered how long it took the Weasley circus to realize that having Parkinson insult someone in their favor was an expression of endearment and loyalty).

Then there was Potter. In the course of the match, he had only directed a few words at Draco, and that was to ask if he wanted another shot of firewhiskey; after Draco had accepted (because why the hell would he refuse alcohol given the damn situation), Potter had gone back to cheering for his girlfriend. He was not as loud or aggressive as the others, but his bespectacled eyes followed Ginny everywhere she flew to. Beside him, Hermione was vocal about her support for her friend, clapping and squealing at the right times. Draco observed her; he took in the way her cheeks flushed pink, the sound of her laughter that spurred on the others around them, and the way her fingers would grip his knee, squeezing like she was attempting to remind him about something (her presence or his word that he'd behave himself—Draco didn't know).

Something uneasy stirred in his chest, however. These people—this warmth they expelled out, it all made up who Granger was. He found pieces of her in all the people around them. He knew he could put them together, to decipher her more, to see the inner workings of that brilliant brain of hers and foolishly delicate soul, but then Draco found himself placing his hand on her thigh, his side pressing closer to hers.

This was how Pansy and Blaise were roped in; this was how they were stolen from him by Saint Potter and his Order. The cold disappeared within these people because there was no room not to see the sun. They all had lost and suffered tragedies far greater than anyone could imagine, but it did not allow the glitter of life to lessen. Among them, Blaise found the absolution he was seeking; that's why he defended the Golden Trio time and time again when Draco and Theo mocked and bullied him, never understanding the peace of mind he found. With the Weasel (and then his family), Pansy discovered a kind of love she could not find anywhere else. It was all light, and home—old friends like him—were darkness. Of course she would defend it with tooth and nail so people like him—people like her, too—could not destroy it.

Yet, despite all the fucking courses on how to reform after a life as the Dark Lord's servant, Draco was still darkness. He was still all shades of red; all fucking anger, resentment, blood, and grief.

Now he was married to Hermione Granger. Now he was married to Hermione Granger, war heroine, defender of all mankind and creature-kind, and she was possibly pregnant. Pregnant with his child. A half-Malfoy spawn.

Draco removed himself from the seat beside Granger to make his way out of the viewing box. His hands shook from something more than anger (something he was not brave enough to identify), pushing his way past a small huddle of teens sipping on flasks he was sure had more than water in them. When he reached the end of the corridor, he thought about heading back to his flat, owling the team of lawyers the Malfoys had at the ready, but someone called out for him.

He did not turn to acknowledge her, his back stiff and shoulders tensed, but that did not stop Hermione from stepping in front of him. Her brows were furrowed, not in annoyance, but in growing apprehension. She studied his face like he had done to hers, taking in every line and every flicker of eyes. Draco hadn't a fucking clue what she found (especially because he was sure his mask of perfect, solid blankness was firmly on), but it made her take his hand, offering him a small, care smile.

"Let's go back to yours," she said. "I can make us dinner and we can then pop in a film."

Draco looked down at their intertwined fingers, unsure of the sentiment in the air or the kind sparkle in her gaze. "Film?" was all he managed to say in return.

Hermione laughed, nodding. "A muggle thing. Kind of like their own magic."

He was not sure if she knew what she was doing, but her free hand moved to the side of his face, her thumb caressing the edge of his jaw. Regardless, Draco felt a knot form in his throat when thoughts—memories—of them in a similar position like this filled his head; instead of Quidditch stadium corridors, it was in a familiar Ministry office and the faint echo of someone reading out sacred text as he slipped a ring on her finger.

Draco was a millisecond away from pushing himself back a step, to put distance between them, but the flash of a camera startled them both. Hermione and he turned to the source, finding Daphne Greengrass and her photographer a few feet down.

"Smile, Mister and Mrs. Malfoy," Daphne cackled, "the world is about to lose their shit."

* * *

 **[AN: Guys! Guys! GUYS! It's me! Holy heck. I'm back. I totally apologize for the months of hiatus on this story, but I was completely drowning in work and other things, this story took a backseat. But I can promise frequent updates now! Thanks for hanging in there with me. As always, I love you all, my lovely readers. Til next time! xx**


	8. Enter Remorse

Daphne Greengrass was not someone people would call trustworthy—conniving, determined mogul who would do and say anything for a good story, _yes_ —but this time she had been absolutely right: the world _did_ lose their shit. The morning her Special Edition of _Witch Weekly_ appeared on the stands with a picture of Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger (sharing a rather intimate moment) on the cover...Well, the title _Forbidden Love: A Granger-Malfoy Union_ seemed accurate in describing the frenzy that followed. News of any important, urgent value was discarded to gossip about this impossible romance, independent wireless radio stations took callers to speculate on this new marriage (there were several thousands of people who agreed Hermione had been kidnapped, forced, or betrothed to Draco, for it could simply not be _love_ the reason for such a union), and it awakened the monster that was the paparazzi.

After Greengrass and her photographer had snapped picture after consecutive picture before Hermione or Draco could react to her intrusion, Hermione _foolishly_ assumed they had nothing to worry about. People certainly had much more pressing matters to worry about than a relationship between two strangers. Of course, these strangers were _Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger_ —just because she failed taking note on how famous she was did not mean the Wizardying World was not pressed on knowing her every move. As a result, she was more than appalled that Monday morning she was not allowed to stroll through the front doors of St. Mungo's as she usually did after a coffee run at her favorite bakery. Blaise ( _Auror Zabini_ , actually, since he was on the job) and two other Aurors waited for her at the entrance, alongside a gang of reporters who began to hurl obscene speculations and invasive questions at her the second she crossed their line of sight.

"You're joking," she hissed at Blaise, pulling at her arm as his hand circled her wrist, leading her inside the building as the other Aurors controlled the mob behind them. "You're playing bodyguard under Harry's orders? Blaise! This is insane!"

Blaise rolled his eyes as he continued to lead her down to her office. "You know I go wherever the Head Auror sends me, but this time I _volunteered_."

"Why?" she huffed, but allowed him to push her past her office's door.

"I know a thing or two about being flagged down by ruthless paparazzi," he said with a shrug, looking away from her when her brown, warm eyes lessened in severity (Hermione had never asked about his past, but Blaise was aware she knew how unstable his life had been during his mother's trial). After checking to make sure her window was secure (and casting a good charm on it to repel any mental reporters who tried levitating a few floors up), Blaise added, "I told Draco he was on his own with this mess, but I didn't say I would not be there for _you_. If protection is all I can offer, then just take it, Hermione."

Hermione reached for his hand, squeezing gently, but said, "My marriage is not a mess."

"Isn't it?" Blaise laughed. "Hell, the world is upside down because of it. You know what they're saying? That you and Draco have been lovers since your Hogwarts days. Forbidden love during time of war, meeting in the aisles of the library, you begging him not to take the Dark Mark."

Hermione snorted loudly, releasing his hand as she made way to her desk. "Greengrass has quite the imagination, I'll give her that."

"It's amusing," he agreed, "but it isn't to Weasley. He punched the reporter who asked him how he felt about your affair with Draco while you two were together."

Looking up from her stack of patient files, Hermione narrowed her eyes at Blaise, waiting for him to say he was lying. He wasn't. She sighed. "Ron knows that isn't true. The media made the same speculations about him and Pansy. He's just upset that it's Draco whom I'm in a relationship with."

" _Married_ ," Blaise corrected. "He's upset Draco's the one you married. And possibly expecting a child with. Although I doubt he and Potter know that bit, right?"

It was Hermione's turn to roll her eyes. "I have a long shift today. Are you going to stay for all of that, or is there a murderer on the loose you need to catch?"

Blaise grinned at Hermione, giving a low bow that made her groan. "Thanks, by the way," he said before he exited the office, "the hibiscuses were appreciated."

"Of course. They're Luna's favorite flowers," she said, waving her hand for him to leave. "Go on now. Do some good in the world."

While Hermione could not do anything about the swarm of reporters outside of St. Mungo's (although she now considered bringing up a reform on the limitation of paparazzi to Percy next time she saw him), she was grateful her shift constituted working with patients in the long-term wards. The only gossip to travel among the wards was who had finally died (as ghastly as that sounded) or what flavor jello the hospital was serving for a snack. Their unawareness allowed Hermione to do her job without any irregular disturbances.

For eleven hours she forgot all about the outside world—until she entered the Healers' lounge and found Malfoy having a conversation with Healers Cho and Padma Patil-Chang. Well, having a conversation was not exactly what was happening; Padma was enthusiastically commenting about how she found out about his and Hermione's marriage while Malfoy bounced his left leg, uneasiness on his pale complexion, and Cho had a hand on her wife's shoulder, holding her back from launching herself at Malfoy for information.

Cho was the one to clock in on her, greeting her firmly as to bring the attention of the room on her.

Hermione had stumbled back a step, obviously startled, but she was quick to register that it was not in fact a trick of the bright light in the room. She blinked away from Malfoy, back to Padma and Cho; Padma was grinning at her, curiosity and excitement in her dark eyes, and Cho held on to her inquisitive nature, brow raised as she studied Hermione.

Clearing her throat in attempt to compose herself, Hermione walked over to Malfoy. She first thought about embracing him, but her arms were unresponsive to her brain's request. Instead, she leaned down to kiss his left cheek.

If he was surprised (or disgusted) by her action, Malfoy did not show it. He simply looked up at her past his blonde lashes, saying, "I finished in the office earlier than usual and thought you might like to grab dinner before going home. Unless you've already ate, that is."

Hermione forced herself not to gape at Malfoy. She could still sense Cho examining every twitch she gave and hear Padma bouncing on the heels of her feet; as such, she smiled at Malfoy. "That sounds lovely, actually. I just have one more patient before my shift is over. You can join me if you like."

Draco had a habit (a talent, really) of thinking himself the only person in a room, but he, too, could not ignore Chang and Patil drowning them in attention (was their marital surname hyphenated, Patil-Chang or Chang-Patil? Or did they use only one? He'd have to ask how this actually happened). For that reason, he stood from his seat, throwing out the paper cup of tea he had been given by a beaming Patil (fine, _Padma_ ) without another glance at the couple.

In silence, he and Granger walked down the cool, white corridors of St. Mungo's. It was uncomfortable, just as he expected it to be given their predicament. He guessed her uneasiness stemmed from the commotion their marriage had caused, but his came from knowing he made this happen. He glanced over at her, wondering if he was actually feeling remorse for leading Daphne Greengrass into 'accidentally' discovering them in order to exploit the publicity that would follow.

Answer: _fuck you, Olive Crabbe._

Usually not shy of the media hustling him everywhere he went, Draco found himself not entirely appreciative of the storm of paparazzi shadowing him. In the past he thrived in the attention he was given because it was his own actions they lusted over, but now this hysteria involved someone else, someone Draco could not control. Yes, he found their conspiracy theories entertaining to hear (because he was sure it would piss off certain members of the Golden Trio, if not all), but his name now came attached to Granger's. They spoke of him like he would never exist again without her. It also did not help that his father—once completely intolerant of the press, but now had stopped to pose for every flash of photography when someone asked him about Draco's marriage—reinstated that the union had only brought happiness to the Malfoy family. Odd as it was to hear the word happiness leave Lucius Malfoy's mouth, his foresight on that matter was spot on; the partners at Malfoy Industries were buzzing at what it meant for them now that Draco was married to the most respectable witch in the Wizarding World.

He just could not explain the itch that came with this development.

"Look at the bright side," Olive had said to him that morning, handing him a shot of whiskey as he marched into his office with a glower that could kill. "You won a hundred galleons when Ginny Weasley maimed half of the Appleby Arrows."

Draco drowned the shot without so much as a wince. "I won fuck all. Granger donated it soon as George Weasley popped around to give her the winnings."

"Merlin," she huffed. "That woman is a saint. Tell me again why she married a devil like you?"

Draco narrowed his silver eyes at Olive, breaking his two-shots-a-day rule by yanking the crystal bottle from her hands. He threw the cap and the shot glass out his office window, knocking back the amber liquid like it was water and he was dying of thirst.

"Jesus fuck," Olive gasped, eyes wide after a moment of studying his reaction. As his secretary, she had to learn every off-putting detail of Draco Malfoy's personality to determine how the rest of their work day would develop. While she had learned how he acted when he was angry, frustrated, or simply annoyed, this was a flash of something she had seen only once before. And that was the day she showed up in his office, asking him for employment as a favor to her deceased cousin Vincent Crabbe (oh, hell yeah she had used that excuse to manipulate him into hiring her). "You feel guilty!"

Draco kicked his feet up on his desk. "Piss off," he grunted. "Cancel my meetings and go clean toilets."

"Oh, no, no. The only shit I'm dealing with today is yours," Olive returned with a determined stare before she took out a small, metallic device from the pocket of her trousers.

When her fingers typed away at record speed, Draco raised a brow. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Telling Cyrus not to wait up for me. This is going to take all day." A _ding_ sounded from her phone, making her laugh loudly before glancing back up at Draco. "By the way, Cyrus says he always knew you had a conscience. And how do you feel about a toaster as a wedding gift?"

Draco flipped her the finger, about to take another swig from the bottle, but she had marched over, yanking it out of his grasp. "That's it," he hissed, "you're fired."

Oliver snorted, unimpressed by his threat. "Do you think I've lasted this long working for you because the pay is good? I can't even afford to buy you that bloody toaster without my husband's help, you cheap twat. Need I remind you people don't want to work for a dickhead like you? So," she waved the whiskey over his face, "you get this back once you admit you're feeling guilty about telling that Greengrass bitch about 'Mione."

"' _Mione?_ Since when the fuck is Granger 'Mione?"

"Since I decided I want us to be best friends. By the way, I don't forgive you for not telling me she was the one you drunk-married. Now focus. You, remorse, _go_."

Draco attempted snatching the bottle but she was quick to swat his hand away. "I don't need this bullshit, Crabbe. I already have an Evaluator."

"Yeah, this weekend wasn't easy for you, was it? Luna mentioned she showed up to the match with Zabini."

Standing from his chair, Draco shoved her back. Before Olive tumbled down, he saved the bottle from crashing against his dark, tiled floor. "Fuck that loony bint. Fuck Blaise and his secret shags. And fuck Granger for not giving me a divorce."

Draco was six shots in when he established that he was _not_ guilty for helping Daphne expose his marriage to Granger. He had (as had everyone who had known before the world did) tried to convince her to have the marriage dissolved as quietly and quickly as possible, but Granger had refused. He had given her an out— _he did the right thing_. So if she had made her choice to remain by his side as his wife, then it was her own fault she get swept up in the crossfire of him trying to sign a new business under Malfoy Industries. With such responsibility, Draco had to find any method to assure Tierra Pura would flourish as he promised it would. If that meant listening to his father to use the respectability Granger's name gave, then that was that.

About more than halfway down the bottle of whiskey, Draco could not shake off the same unrest he had felt during the semi-finals. Thinking about Granger, thinking about her friends, about how consumed they were with one another, with each other's happiness and well-being, allowing him to be by her side without (loud) protest...

"Listen," Granger spun on her heels, pulling Draco out of his thoughts as they came to a stop at a new section of St. Mungo's. "The patients in this ward have suffered disfigurement and don't take kindly when they are stared at like they aren't people. If you don't think you can handle that, please wait for me here. I won't take long."

The burning reverence in her brown eyes intrigued Draco. He had known her to be incredibly righteous (annoyingly so), but this was something else. This was overwhelming wardship. It was enough to make him nod, letting her know he would follow where she went.

Upon entering, Draco expected to find adults the ones who had been maimed someway, somehow, but he had not expected it to be _children_ whose faces peered up at them when the door swung open. Some of them were on their beds, reading books, coloring, or sleeping, while others were huddled at the far end of the ward, playing with toys that overflowed from a large, wooden chest. He was too busy counting them, registering how old some of them looked (the eldest had to be eight), when a little girl rushed up to Hermione, wrapping arms around her knees.

"Did you bring me a cookie, 'Mione?" the child asked with a giant, toothy smile.

Granger laughed, shaking her head. "Not today, sweetheart."

The little girl pouted, but seemed to accept she would go on without a pastry. She cast blue eyes on Draco, and it was then that he really noticed her. She was tiny, with blonde hair that was growing in different, choppy lengths, and had lovely, defined features that had been scorched. In fact, all of her had been.

"Is this him?" she asked, turning back to her Healer.

"Yes, Lottie. This is my husband. Draco," Granger flashed her brown eyes at him, a smile on her face, "this is Lottie."

"I'm her favorite person in the world," Lottie said to him as her hold on Granger's knees tightened.

Draco had to clear his throat to find his voice. "Really? I thought it was the beast she calls a cat. Or at the very least me."

Lottie laughed and Granger rolled her eyes. "Crookshanks is not a beast," she reminded with a grunt.

"That's an animal, silly," Lottie said to Draco. "But she said I can be her favorite person because you are her favorite prince."

He looked up at Granger, brows knitted in confusion. "Prince, huh?"

She turned away from him, but Draco still caught pink flushing her cheeks as she reached down to pull Lottie onto her hip. He watched her then, watched as she tenderly brushed fingertips over the girl's forehead, tucking blonde strands to the back of her ear. Despite her gentleness, Granger was unafraid of this small being and her broken pieces. Or maybe she did not think the child was broken despite her scars.

Granger carried her to an empty bed. Lottie was swallowed by the white sheets, but the blue in her eyes, innocent and happy, made her a beacon. She allowed her Healer to proceed with the check up as she chatted away, telling her all about the new book Healer Flint had read to them the night before.

Draco had known from Blaise that Granger had not followed Potter and Weasley into the Auror Department because she didn't want to continue doing what they had been doing since the fight of Good vs. Evil had begun. She wanted change, wanted to do something worthwhile. Not ignorant of the fact that Granger had been a useful weapon in time of war, Draco thought she _still was_ doing what she did during the war. She was saving people. She was bringing hope.

"Daddy!"

When Lottie pushed herself up to her knees, waving a hand, Draco had turned to find a man entering the ward. He smiled hugely at the child, but when his own blue eyes found Granger, it diminished.

Granger pocketed her wand, keeping her gaze intent on Lottie. "Okay, sweetheart," she said in a whisper, "everything seems as good as it was yesterday. Just continue to take your potions, and that nasty cough won't come back."

"You hear that, Daddy?" Lottie squealed. "I'm getting better!"

"That's great, love," the man said, taking a few steps closer to his daughter's bed. His proximity made Granger stiffen. Either unaware or uncaring of that, he added, "You make her better, Hermione. Thank you."

Granger cleared her throat, still focused on the child. "I'll see you tomorrow, Lottie." She pressed a kiss on her cheek. "Now, is there something you'd like to say to me before I go?"

"I am beautiful," the child said after pressing her own kiss on Granger, repeating something that sounded close to a mantra. "I am a person. I am fire."

Granger smiled. "Yes, you are. Bright and burning like the sun." As quickly as the adoration appeared on her face, when she looked at Lottie's father, it was gone. "Visiting hours are for another thirty minutes. Please leave after that time so the rest of the children can get their sleep."

"Hermione—"

"I'm sorry, Mister Conrad," she took a step back, away from his intent on reaching for her hand, "my husband is waiting for me. Any concerns you may have can be addressed to our Head Healer, Cho Patil-Chang. Have a good evening."

Granger marched over to Draco, taking his hand to lead him out of the ward. They walked down the same corridor in a silence that was different, that was filled with her anger that pulsated against his palm. When he said her name, trying to reach her as she fumed, she startled him by pushing him against the wall, stretching up on her toes to press a furious kiss on his lips.

"For dinner," she said after she pulled away, "I'm thinking pasta."

They did not end up going to a restaurant for dinner. St. Mungo's was still surrounded in all direction by paparazzi, making it impossible for them to step foot outside. One of the Aurors (who Draco had learned Blaise had left for Granger) instructed them to take a Floo directly to their flat instead. Without breaking a mental sweat, Granger hooked her office Floo Network to Draco's flat; as soon as they entered, Granger headed for the bedroom to change out of her robes while he instructed Delta to take the night off (much to the house-elf's displeasure).

When she came back out, long, curly brown hair tied up in a messy bun, dressed in small, black shorts and an old Slytherin jersey she had taken from his drawer, Granger made way into the kitchen. She pulled out pots and pans from places Draco had not known his kitchen had; as she grabbed all the ingredients she would need, she seemed lost in her own thoughts, unaware that he still remained there.

"It's true, isn't it?"

Her shoulders gave a little jump at the sound of his voice. Casting him a quick look over her shoulder, she said, "What is?"

"A year ago I heard from Astoria that you were involved with a married man. I didn't believe it because, well, it's _you_. No one could get you to hand over your coursework to copy; the thought of you being with someone who was married was as farfetched as _you and me_ getting married. But here were are."

Draco was sure Granger would not respond; she appeared to be quite content and focused on stirring the sauce with a large wooden spoon to pay him any mind. When she released a deep sigh, he thought he imagined the words that then came out of her mouth.

"Finn Conrad: charming and sweet on the outside, but rotten inside," she paused to take another breath. "I was on call when Lottie was brought in almost two years ago. Her magic had just began to manifest, and she had no idea how to control it. Neither did her mother, a muggle. She must've assumed magic from a child was not powerful, so she left her unattended. Next thing they knew Lottie's room burst into flames with her trapped inside...

"He was so distraught. I needed to call security to help me get Lottie out of his arms. Cho took her to surgery and asked me to stay with him, to sedate him if necessary. I sat with him, held his shaking hands, and asked him to tell me about her. I sat there for hours, listening to the adventures of this little girl, and I was marveled by her just as I was at how much he loved her. When Cho came out and allowed him to see Lottie, Finn asked me to be by his side. I didn't realize it then, but I was already willing to follow him anywhere he wanted me to."

Draco stepped further into the kitchen, removing the pot of boiling pasta from the stove with a wave of his wand. Granger pointed a finger at the sink where a drainer waited. Putting her silent instructions together, he had the pot overturned over the drainer as he asked, "When does the wife come to play?"

"He told me he hadn't been present because he no longer lived there. _Divorced_. I believed it, of course, because as time passed she never came to hospital and we...Lottie suffered a traumatic experience. With such event comes a loss of memory. When she finally started to recover, she began telling me all about her life. She told me all she could, even the story of her mummy and daddy going to celebrate their anniversary the night of her accident. She had been upset she could not go; that's why her magic flared."

Granger leaned over the now cooling sauce, pausing to wipe the top of her hand over her cheeks. Draco caught sight of her tears before the evidence was gone. "Heartbreak," she muttered, "I can deal with, but knowing I meddled with Lottie's family while she is surviving her accident...God, Malfoy. That shattered me every day."

Later that night, after dinner had been had and dishes had been washed in quiet companionship, Draco watched her climb into his bed. Although he had been the one to suggest a truce during their month trial as a married couple, he had built a barrier of ice to separate their individual sides. It was a line not even she had been up to challenge. Yet when she adjusted the covers over them, she looked at him, pondering something in more silence before the choice of crossing the dividing line occurred. Her arm tightened over his chest, holding him close to her warm, soft body, and Draco let her. He traced fingertips up her arm until she fell asleep.

No amount of alcohol would ever prepare Draco from accepting that fuck, _yes_ , of course he felt remorse. Not only had he gotten so piss drunk that he ended up marrying Hermione Granger, bringing in the shitstorm that came with the Malfoy name as she dealt with her own shitty life, but now a part of him knew this was the beginning of the end.

How could he exist again without her?


	9. The Fall

If Draco pulled himself away from comfortable sheets while a warm, soft body slept next to him, smelling of something sweet and a hint of cinnamon, then he blamed it on restlessness— _not_ inner turmoil the cause of his tossing and turning, making him think things someone like him should not be thinking of. It was that same restlessness that made him slip on a charcoal-colored jumper and black trainers (yes, he owned fucking trainers) before he made way into the Floo.

Some other time, once he was no longer concerned with himself and he could spare some for others, Draco would tell Theodore Nott he needed to upgrade his shoddy security wards. It took him less than thirty seconds to break past the enchantments without the walls of the home producing so much as a tremor to signal the intrusion. Draco made a beeline for where he knew the master bedroom to be; once pushing the door open, the moonlight pouring in through an open window allowed him to locate Nott's wand discarded on top of a pile of clothes (which included a woman's silky undergarments). Hovering over the bed, Draco reached the figure on the left, yanking hard on his arm.

Theo landed on the ground tangled in his sheets, narrowly missing the sharp edge of his nightstand on the way down. As a reflex from having lived through a war, his hands searched for his wand in the radius around him, but when he did not find it, he surged up, flailing arms to use his fists as his weapons of last choice.

"I need your complete focus right now, Nott." Draco snapped his fingers over Theo's face now, forcing the latter to clock in on him.

" _Malfoy?_ " Theo stumbled after Draco forcefully pushed his wand into his hand, his limbs still weak from the deep sleep he had been rudely roused from. "Mate, do you even know what fucking time it is?"

"Four in the morning," Draco said offhandedly as he reached over to have Theo point his wand at him. "Now do it."

"Do what?"

"Check if I've been put under the Imperius Curse," Draco snapped, ire narrowing his silver eyes, like the request had been obvious it did not need any explaining.

With eyelids heavy with sleep, Theo tiled his head to the side to better inspect his friend. "Why would you be under an Unforgivable? Did you have a sex dream about Pansy again? I told you she's been biding her time with Weasley until you lowered your guard so she could use some love potion to get you back."

A loud scoff echoed around the room that came from the figure on Theo's bed that had previously been asleep. Turning over into a sitting position, Astoria Greengrass narrowed her eyes at the two men, but still had a smirk pulling at her lips.

"Oh, how the mighty have fallen," she said to Draco.

"Fuck you."

Astoria's smirk glittered devilishly. "You already have. It wasn't all it was cracked up to be."

"Funny," Draco bit back, "that's not what your mother said."

Despite the lethargic state of his reflexes (and mind), Theo was savvy enough to put himself between Draco and Astoria. Just because she liked to keep her fingernails perfectly manicured and clothes wrinkle-free did not mean Astoria would not succumb to fists for retaliation. Especially when it concerned Draco Malfoy. She would gladly wrestle in mud if that meant she could strangle the life out of him.

"Mate," he sighed, "why are you really here?"

" _I told you_ ," Draco said through gritted teeth, "I need you to check if I've been bewitched."

It took only two seconds for Theo to give in to his friend's ridiculous demand. He had raised his wand, thinking of the incantation, when Astoria was suddenly beside him, lowering his arm back to his side.

"You're not cursed," she said to Draco, her blue eyes filled with her disdain, but there was a flicker of something else, something like amusement that made the latter's blood boil. "Use your head, Malfoy. If Granger had you under an Unforgivable you would not be here right now. It's time for you to listen to that voice in your dark, twisted head and admit that you're completely fucked."

When Astoria had her own wand pointed at him now, Draco was unafraid of it. Instead he asked, "What does that mean?"

"I'm not your Evaluator," she said with a roll of her eyes, jabbing her wand hard on his chest. "Now get out before I disfigure that pretty face of yours."

He Flooed back to his flat, but he did not return to sleep. He slipped beside Granger, careful not to wake her as he stared up at the ceiling, his trainers poking out from the end of the bed. He did not know what to make of Astoria's comment, but, still, a part of him knew he agreed with her. He _was_ completely fucked. To what extent, however, was still to be determined.

Granger had rolled over to his side, using his shoulder as a pillow for more than an hour. When the sun seeped through the slightly parted curtains of his bedroom, she stirred awake. He expected her to jump away from him, to mutter an apology for crossing the line of boundaries she was so fond of, but it never came. She nestled further into the crook of his neck and his arm tightened around her waist by its own accord.

Several times he thought he was going to tell her she was not a horrible person (something he had been meaning to say last night), but the words did not come out. _She should know._ She just had the misfortune of falling in love with someone who took advantage of her trusting nature. That's what cruel men did—what _devils_ did. They took advantage of those with light in their souls and exploited it all until there was not one glowing ember left.

How was Draco any different to the man who had broken Granger's heart?

Even if Astoria Greengrass could find a shred of kindness in her heart to explain things to Draco he refused to dive into, she was right; she was not his Evaluator. _Luna Lovegood_ was. As much as he despised the idea of having to apparate to the Ministry of Magic for another pointless round of _Cure that Death Eater,_ his quota of ditching these sessions was nonexistent. Unless he wanted his wand privileges suspended (along with his freedom), he needed to march through her office doors and listen to her try to reform him.

"At least there is no scheduled Legilimency today," Lovegood said to him as she handed him a vibrant yellow teacup. "Here, drink this. It'll help. I received some Japanese herbs and flowers from one of my fellow Naturalists this past weekend. She said they all have calming properties."

Draco did not take the teacup as he frowned at her. "Do you make a lot of tea for Zabini?"

"Blaise doesn't like tea,"she settled the teacup before him anyway, her good nature not diminishing for a slight second. "He's more in touch with his Italian roots than his British ones. He prefers coffee and espressos."

"Good. You pay attention," he remarked coldly. "I didn't expect anything less from you, Lovegood. What else do you know about him?"

"As lovely as this is, Draco, we are not here to discuss my romantic life," Lovegood said with a bright smile despite the words that would have been laced with sharp sarcasm if they had come from someone else.

He scoffed at her response. "This is my evaluation, _yes_ ," while his words seemed polite (okay, no they weren't), his silver eyes were unmasked when showing how aggravating he found her to be, "but I don't think this professional relationship is going to work anymore. Call it a conflict of interest. Or a _crossing_ of interests, really."

Luna raised a brow, but that pretty smile still remained as she dipped her odd-looking quill into an inkpot. "How so? I'm not asking you any questions regarding your present life and the people in it—that will be reserved for future sessions, of course. Currently, we are focused on your past as a Death Eater."

Draco's fingers retracted on his knees, gripping on to the expensive material of his black trousers. "You're too involved, Lovegood. The Department of Rehabilitation for Former Death Eaters will not approve that my wife's friend and best mate's girlfriend is the one trying to piece me back together according to what they think makes a perfect citizen. They might find you biased."

"The department finds me a lot of things, Draco, but biased is not one of them," she laughed, the sound like the wind-chimes she hung on her windows. Marking something on her notepad, she then said, "You seem misinformed, actually. I am not Blaise's girlfriend. Surely he clarified that for you."

Again, Draco scoffed. "I've nothing to say to that twat."

"Why?"

"What'd you mean _why_? He lied to me about you—his bloody girlfriend or not, shag buddy, who the hell cares. He still didn't say anything."

"You tell him about every woman you date, then? Because he seemed genuinely surprised you married Hermione. Isn't he your best friend? Shouldn't he have known?"

Glaring, Draco reached for the tea he had originally rejected. He took a drink to buy him some seconds of silence. _At least_ , he thought to himself, _Blaise did not told this loony bint that my marriage to Granger is a product of a very hazy one night stand._

When he glanced back up, Lovegood's expectant blue eyes forced him to say,"He's one of you now."

Lovegood finished a scribble on her parchment before setting her quill down. She did not say anything, but the tilt of her head asked him to evaluate.

"He got a job as an Auror for none other than Harry fucking Potter. He has fought beside him, beside Weasley, and others we spent our schooldays dunking their heads into toilets. They welcomed him with open arms—people Blaise now calls friends. Society accepts this rejected Death Eater. I didn't think twice about it before; I just assumed Blaise was having a laugh, passing time until something else occupied his attention. I still did. Then when I saw him waltz in with _you_ —Luna Lovegood, war hero and the bloody embodiment of innocence, I knew he was one of you. Blaise isn't coming back."

"I was not aware he left you," she told him, soft like the breeze of this morning.

Draco shrugged, taking another sip of his tea, letting it burn his tongue before swallowing it down. "I don't hate him for it. How can I? He found redemption."

"Do you not think yourself capable of finding such redemption, too, Draco?"

"Blaise was never _marked_ ," he told her as if that should explain it all, his right hand abandoning his teacup to reach for his left forearm. Beneath the luxurious blazer and button-up rested the brand of the devil. "Those of us who were never get to where he is."

"That's not true," Lovegood countered, a frown creasing her forehead. "This department takes great pride in giving former Death Eaters new beginnings."

Draco wanted to laugh at her naivety. Instead, with the same weight his demons piled on his shoulders, he told her, "This department is just as wrapped up in fairy-tales as you are, Lovegood. We don't reform. You _can't_ reform us. Sure, we can give up our pureblood mania for your beloved tolerance, but you can't cure darkness from our souls. You don't make us worthy of people like you. You just condition us to repress our nightmares long enough for this department to deem us capable of rejoining society as harmless individuals. You work to save yourselves from us, but who saves us from ourselves?"

He set the teacup back in its place as he stood. Draco knew there would be consequences for leaving his evaluation before his time was up, but the air in the room was no longer breathable. Not when he released the venom he carried inside that was his own source of destruction.

When he twisted the golden handle, Lovegood said, "We cannot save you from yourself, but you are wrong, Draco. You _are_ worthy of light. If you were not, Hermione would not be your wife."

He had been intent on taking a left when he exited the Ministry, but a herd of paparazzi forbid him from making that turn. Usually after these Evaluations Draco fancied a drink (or two, or three, or a whole bottle), but he knew how this worked; they would follow him, snap pictures of him drinking his demons away, and would label them _Draco Malfoy Downs Firewhiskey: Is There Trouble in Paradise?_ While this ordeal with Granger had been his father's idea, the latter had warned him about bad press. There simply wasn't room for any if he wanted to win favor from the board.

He was pushing his way past the photographers when someone grabbed the back of his blazer, helping him out. Blaise was shouting at the paparazzi, threatening them with arrest for harassing a civilian on Ministry ground, but Draco did not stay to acknowledge the Auror. He instead pushed back into the Ministry, gritting his teeth as he threw in a handful of Floo Powder to take him to the lobby of Malfoy Industries.

Upon entering his office, an intern (Simmons or something) handed him a large stack of mail. He gave an explanation of why Olive was yet to arrive, but Draco did not really listen to it. He just sorted through the post, discarding letters from Pansy (one was actually a Howler, for what, he did not care) and his mother, and writing out one-line responses to business associates who had questions for one thing or another.

Draco was not aware how much time had passed him when fingers snapped over his face, bringing him back to the now. He found Olive raising a brow at him, shaking the file she was extending for him to take while harsh moonlight poured in from the open window of his office.

"Have you been smoking that exotic plant Goyle sent over?" she asked, crossing her arms over her chest now. "For Merlin's fucking sake, I told him that thing is potent. He barely has any functioning brain cells, must he kill the few he does have? I wonder if Cyrus can arrest him. I'm sure there has to be a connection between Muggle policemen and the Department of Magical Law Enforcement—"

"Stop your babbling," he snapped at her, "and get back to fucking work."

Olive's raised brow turned into two furrowed ones. "What's with your foul mood? I'm the one PMSing here, yet I still made your tea with honey like I was serving some fucking child. Did you offer any? _No_. And you know my menstrual cramps cannot be soothed by potions."

Draco was not sure if he was about to bang his head over his desk until he blacked out or if he was just going to throw her out the window like he did with all the things he did not feel like dealing with. Fortunately for her (because he was already reaching for his wand), there was a knock on his doors. Olive might be an imprudent woman, but she was an obedient secretary (when she wanted to be, that is); as such, she marched over to allow entrance to the visitor. He knew it was unlikely for there to be other partners in the office at this hour, but it still surprised him to see Granger walking into his office with a large paper bag clutched in one hand.

Olive glanced between Draco and his wife, an excited pink shade flushing her pale cheeks. She bit her bottom lip to compose herself, but Draco already knew she was going to fail in keeping in the squeal she was trying to stifle.

It startled Granger when Olive shouted, "I'm so happy to finally meet you, 'Mione!"

Granger flashed confused brown eyes at Draco. He scoffed. "This is Olive Crabbe, my secretary. And your new biggest fan, apparently."

Olive's excitement was briefly cut short when she glared at her boss. "Don't you dare ruin this for me," she warned him before turning back to Granger with a smile and an outstretched hand. "Sorry about my outburst, but I've waited for this moment since you broke Draco's nose last year. Fine work, by the way. Big fan of _that_."

"Nice to meet you, Olive—"

"Oh, please call me Liv," Olive said as Granger shook her hand. "Everyone does."

"Since when?" Draco questioned.

"Since now, so shut up."

Granger appeared to be waiting for Draco to retaliate to his secretary's cheeky behavior, but instead he just rolled his eyes at her. Once that passed, he looked at her, asking, "Why are you here?"

"Oh. Right." She marched over to his desk, settling the paper bag on it. "I came home from St. Mungo's and didn't find you there. Delta said you usually stayed late these days, so I thought I'd bring you dinner."

"You shouldn't have come here," he said to her with narrowed silver eyes. "Olive and I have files to sort through for my meeting tomorrow. Go home and get some sleep."

The small smile that had appeared on Granger's face vanished. She looked ready to argue with him, but Olive chimed in, clearing her throat loudly. "I'll finish the files," she said to Draco. "You go home with your wife, Mister Malfoy."

"Olive—"

"I won't half-ass this lot, I promise," she said with a smirk. "Besides, Cyrus went to Brighton for a case and won't be home until the weekend. At least one of us should be with their significant other."

Draco wanted to say the last thing he needed was to be around Granger after the grueling meeting with Lovegood, but he could not deny his thoughts had often drifted to her during the course of the day. He kept thinking of the way she curled up beside him, resting her head on his chest as they slept, or the warm, kind smile she gifted him in the morning as she helped Delta serve them their breakfast; he thought of the soft kiss on his cheek she gave him before departing to St. Mungo's, wishing him a good day, and how she cried when revealing the story of her previous heartbreak named Finn Conrad. He could not stop himself from thinking back to her interaction with Lottie Conrad, how gentle her hands were on the burnt little girl, and the undiluted adoration she held for her. Draco could not help his thoughts from telling him Granger fixed things that were broken.

"Okay," he murmured, nodding once as his fingers released the files he had been shuffling around. He grabbed his wand from the edge of his desk, pocketing it, but left behind his blazer.

When he moved to the other side of his desk, taking the paper bag, Olive pulled out her phone and a flash blinded the married couple. She grinned to herself, "This is going to be my new wallpaper." Then she looked up at them before they were out the door, "You'd really fire me if I sell this to Daft-ne Green-arse, right?"

"Fire then deliver you to your wretched mother," Draco threatened.

Olive grumbled as she waved them off.

"Are we going home?" Granger asked, wrapping a hand on his arm as they walked out into the night for the nearest apparition point.

"To change," he said with a nod. "But I'm thinking instead of a late dinner this could be breakfast. How do you feel about the beaches in Australia?"

Once they had made it home, Draco and Granger had gone to his bedroom to find appropriate attire, neither one bothering to ease Delta's worry of them catching a cold with the thin garments they were leaving the flat with. Granger had just bent to kiss the house-elf on the head, laughing when Draco pulled her out the door. The spontaneity of it brought such a pretty glimmer in her brown eyes, he wondered if this was how he convinced her (if _he'd_ been the one to convince her) to get married. He imagined it was rare when Granger allowed herself moments of recklessness, to be young and wild, to be free of any proper, logical thinking; perhaps when these moments did come, she embraced them, ran off with them before her mind caught up with her.

While it was past midnight in Britain, the Australians were a few hours into their morning when they arrived to Perth beach. Given the time, Draco managed to find an isolated corner of sand and rock for him and Granger. She set out the food she bought ( _'Just sandwiches from my favorite bakery,'_ she said, _'nothing fancy._ '), handing him his bottled drink, but she barely nibbled her food. When he finished his, she jumped up from the rock, kicking off her sandals to run to the shore. She did not go past her knees, but laughed when the waves splashed her all over.

He did not join her, but found himself content on watching her pick up seashells for the children of her ward.

"Thank you for this," she said, breaking the silence that had bloomed between them after she returned to him. He felt her eyes on him, but he did not meet them. Instead he watched a wave recede back into the ocean. "It's just what I needed."

He nodded.

"It's what you needed too, is it not?"

"I'm fine," he said. "I just did not feel like going home. Usually, I'd go to one of my clubs, drink until I have lost all sense of right and wrong, but I hear that's frowned upon once you've been married. So, cheers, Granger, for ending my bachelor days."

She snorted, digging her toes into the sand beneath them. "Need I remind you it's because of your usual behavior that we are married? Had you not challenged me to a drinking competition, perhaps you'd still be enjoying that cherished bachelor life."

Draco looked at her now, finding her with a large smirk on her pink lips. "Oh, now _I_ challenged you?" She laughed, the sound so beautiful and warm, so true, he thought it was a better soundtrack than the crashing waves. He didn't know what it was about it that made him say, "I had my bimonthly meeting with my Evaluator this morning."

" _Still?_ "

His inclination for her shattered when a glare started to darken his silver eyes at the tone she used.

Realizing this, Granger was quick to amend herself. "I meant no offense by my question. It's just...Why do you need more Evaluations? You've been an abiding citizen of the British Wizardying Community for so long. Surely they would have declared you reformed by now."

"Giving up prejudice isn't all they try to cure us from," Draco told her with a humorless chuckle. "They want to fix what is broken. Mind, soul, heart—everything we are. They want to rid us of our demons, but they can't. Not always."

"Not with you?"

Draco could not find a response when he noticed how the Australian sunlight poured around her, making her skin glow golden. For the briefest second he wondered if she really was pregnant; he had heard of the radiance that came over women who were with child, but a part of him knew Granger had always been this alluring and he was just discovering it. Whatever it was, he had to stop from leaning in to her, falling over her like a blind man fawning over the sun after recovering his sight.

This version of her, all gold skin and eyes, all warmth, vanished from before him when his mind projected the worst memory he had of her. He saw her surrounded by grey walls, surrounded by darkness and insanity, surrounded by the foul stench of death as her cries echoed as his Aunt Bellatrix tortured her, carving into her with a silver blade drenched in her blood...

"There is no fixing what I've done," he said without a trace of the fear and regret burning in his chest. He turned back to the ocean, willing to memory away.

He felt the soft weight of her hand on his, lacing fingers in order to squeeze.

"We were at war, Draco," Granger whispered. "While I cannot excuse you for the awful things you once said, I don't blame you for doing what you needed to do to survive. You didn't have a choice, after all. Voldemort threatened your family. You let yourself be branded a Death Eater to save them."

He tugged his hand away from her grasp. "I let myself be branded a Death Eater because I was a _coward_ ," he snarled as he stood, towering over her as he glared down. "Don't twist the truth because you think you're comforting me, Granger. It's not what I want to hear. I live with my demons—fuck, _you_ are one of them! And I've accepted it all."

It was foolish for Draco to think that Hermione Granger could be stunned into silence by him. She stood now, too, hands brushing off the sand that clung to her thighs as she glared at him with the same intensity he used.

"Don't tell me how I have to see you," she hissed. "You say you accept your demons, but I think you _settled_ for them. You turned yourself into a monster, but that's not what _I_ see. I know you lowered your wand that night on the Astronomy Tower; you were never going to kill Dumbledore, all your previous botched attempts are proof of that. I remember you did not sell us out to Bellatrix that night we were brought to your manor. I remember you saved Goyle and tried to save Crabbe from the cursed fire. I remember you gave Harry your wand, turning the tide of victory in _our_ favor. You saved his life. Then I remember you coming back; after all the death and grief, during restoration, you came back. You wanted a new beginning, too, but somewhere along the way you decided you were not allowed to have one."

She reached for his hand again, holding tightly to it when he tried to shake her off. With clear, golden eyes beaming with an honesty that was too much to bear, she said, "I won't strip you of your crown as an overconfident, smarmy bastard, you've earned it, but that's not all to you, Draco. Do you want to know what I see when I look past that? I see someone who made a home for himself in the darkness because he is afraid of the light. We all carry our scars and our marks," she said this as she outstretched her right arm, letting him see the ugly lines that spelt MUDBLOOD on her smooth skin before that hand covered his exposed Dark Mark, "but it does not define us. I am not a stain to magic and you are not the devil who made you his servant."

It was an odd moment to be realizing this, but Draco just caught on to what Lovegood had done in their session. The reason why it had taken him (as it had taken hundreds of ex-Death Eaters) so many years without being legally discharged of these Evaluations was due to him not being able to open up. Yes, one Evaluator after another poked into his head, stretching out his memories, putting them under harsh light to analyze, to get to know his position on all these gruesome events, but they could not do that with his heart. They could not take the broken, mismatched, blackened thing to help unknot the feelings of self-hatred and damnation he carried.

Lovegood had not used Legilimency, but she had pushed the right buttons to make him say exactly what he felt about Blaise (something he had not even allowed himself to say to his own reflection) and where that left him. That was why Draco could not focus on his work—that was why all he wanted was to be around Granger, because she had already shown him her broken pieces and he thought he could do the same. But it was more than wanting her presence to numb his open wounds; he wanted to know if Lovegood was right, if he really could be worthy of something better.

Here she was—here was Granger, all sharp sincerity, all passionate truth and guiding light. Draco struggled to breathe knowing one of his demons was releasing him from the prison cell he has been locked in since before the war had come to an end.

He had to be bewitched, fuck what Astoria Greengrass thought. That was the only explanation for him giving in, for him leaning in to press his mouth against Granger's. If it startled her, she was quick to stifle it, for she allowed him to grip her waist with one hand while the other moved to the back of her neck. He pressed himself closer to her, letting all her warmth seep into his chest as the sound of the ocean waves was replaced by the banging of his heart against his eardrums.

It had to be magic what made him never want to let Hermione go.


	10. Cock-Block of a Day

Draco Malfoy did not fuck Hermione Granger. Well, he _had_ (once or twice, or he really could not remember how many times because alcohol impaired that specific memory), but after that kiss in Perth, they returned to the flat without any intent of repeating their wedding night (yeah, _shocking_ ; he thought so, too). Instead, Draco had stripped down to his boxer briefs, climbed into bed, parted the sheets, and invited Hermione in. She joined him after changing into his old Slytherin jersey, cuddling up beside him. He was not sure who moved first, only that they were a tangle of limbs when they tightly embraced one another.

"Don't regret this when we wake," he had murmured into her hair, sleep weighing his eyelids heavy.

"I won't," she returned after a second of silence, of letting his words sink in for what they were, to understand and accept the unusual sincerity behind them.

Draco may not have fucked Hermione that night, but he had bared himself to her. He showed her what was behind his skin, what secrets and regrets he hid from exposing light. It was as intimate as he had ever gotten with anyone. It stirred insecurities within him he thought he'd never get to acknowledge, but one look into her warm, brown eyes and he let her trace a fingertip over his Dark Mark. When he felt like recoiling, like spewing venom to fight off the vulnerability, she kissed his forearm before reaching up for his lips.

"I thought I was cursed," he had also said to her. "I asked Nott to check if you had bewitched me."

Hermione let out a tired laugh.

"Yeah, I know. Amusing. Astoria said I wasn't bewitched, just fucked." He ran a hand up her hip to settle on the indent of her waist. "I think she's right."

"That doesn't bother you?"

"Does it bother _you_?"

"I'm the one who threatened you to stay married, Draco."

"Threaten," he snorted. "Well, you see, I'm not exactly a stranger to chaos, Hermione. This time instead of a tattoo, I got a wife. And possibly a baby."

"A family," she murmured, looking away from Draco's silver eyes to her thumb drawing lazy circles on his naval.

Nothing else had been said. They let her comment suspend in the small distance between them and echo off the bedroom walls like a lullaby. The weight of it followed them into their dreams—dreams Draco had no idea he wanted before...

When sun poured in past the parted curtains, Draco found himself awake before Hermione. He watched her for what felt like a brief moment, counting the freckles on the bridge of her nose and the few stray ones on her cheeks, listening to the peaceful pace of her breathing waltzing with her heart at a slow tempo, but the vibrating cellphone-device-thing she carried signaled it was well past eleven.

Hermione stirred at the noise. Instead of reaching to answer the blasted thing, she further snuggled up into his side.

"Make it stop," she grumbled against his throat.

He lifted his torso a few degrees to get a better look at the phone; with a few seconds of concentration, the thing went flying against the furthest wall, silencing itself. When he then went to press her firmly against him, he said, "You're incredibly late to St. Mungo's."

She shook her head. "Called off."

" _You_ called off?" he scoffed and she pinched his side. "Chang-Patil was okay with that?"

"Patil-Chang," she corrected before she pulled herself a few centimeters back to bore her big, brown eyes at him. "I told her I wanted a lie in with my husband. She understood. After all, I gave her and Padma both a month off when they married. One day hardly seemed like too much of a request."

Draco hummed before pressing a kiss at the tip of her nose. "And this sudden day off has nothing to do with the fact that we are supposed to meet my mother for lunch?"

"I am not nervous if that's what you are implying," she scolded him, jabbing a finger at his chest that he quickly swatted away. "I don't need a whole morning to mentally prepare myself for that, or if by some horribly unfair twist of fate she decides to invite your father, too. I really did want to spend this morning right here, beside you."

"Well, just because Hermione Granger decides to skive off work, does not mean I can afford that luxury," he told her.

"Malfoy."

"What?"

"Hermione _Malfoy_ ," she was not looking at him when she said this, but the pink of her cheeks was hard not to see. "It's customary for the woman to take her husband's name, is it not? I mean, it's all a bit medieval and all, because I can and will keep my surname if I please it, but Malfoy is not an entirely awful—"

He silenced her rambling with a kiss.

She might have expected the morning sun to be oblivious to what she had said when the moon was out, but it was still lingering in the back of his head, repeating the same phrase over and over again. _Family, family, family, family._

That was what she was giving him.

Her response to the kiss deepened when her fingers sunk into his hair, tugging at the roots when he hiked her leg over his hip. He tried for a brief second to rack his brains to remember if it had felt this good having Hermione's warm body beside him as he devoured her lips, but he let that go when he decided to live in the present moment. Because right now, it had to be better than a memory he could not recall; especially when she rolled on top of him, kissing him harder as she ground herself down on him.

If Heaven was this, trying to press every blissful spot on Hermione's body, then Hell was the Floo Network lighting up with emerald flames to spew his mother out.

Instantly, Hermione launched herself off of Draco, nearly missing her side of the bed. Draco reached for her arm, reeling her in just in time before she collided with her night stand.

"I've got to start locking that blasted thing," he hissed to himself as he aimed a frown at his mother. " _What?_ "

While the two newlyweds were red (one out of sheer embarrassment and the other out of rage), Narcissa was completely unruffled by the state she had caught them in. She narrowed her blue eyes at her son, warning him about his tone directed at her without having to say the words. Then, in a clear and almost sweet voice, she said, "Good morning. Skipping breakfast along with work, I see."

"Father sent you?" asked Draco when he tried to keep himself from scoffing at his mother (or tell her he was about to have Hermione for breakfast).

"How about I have Delta whip something up for both of you?" Narcissa said, already walking out of the bedroom.

Draco frowned, but Hermione let out the groan she had been containing. "If I wasn't worried about your mother's perception of me before, I am now."

"As much as it pains me to acknowledge this, I think my mother is well aware that married people have sex."

"We weren't having sex," she hissed at him, eyes wide in outrage as she lept off the bed, finding the nearest robe to throw on herself. When she had secured the ties, she fetched for the cellphone he had thrown. "It was Olive. She said she just wanted me to make sure you had a morning shot of whiskey. Why does she want me to give you alcohol so early in the day?"

"Why is Olive contacting you?" he demanded. "When the hell did you two even exchange numbers?"

"We didn't," she said as she skimmed the device again. "But she's really good at tracking people down, I'll give her that."

Draco scoffed as he grudgingly stood from the bed, too. "Stalking my wife is definitely enough reason to fire her, right? I've been looking for an excuse that will hold over with human resources."

Hermione rolled her eyes at him as they both exited the bedroom. They were heading off to the kitchen, but found Narcissa already sat in the living room, pouring tea into the three cups laid out on the center table. Hermione leaned back on the balls of her feet, looking ready to march back to the bedroom, but Draco took her hand, lacing fingers together to move them to the open couch.

"Mother," he said as calmly as he could, "one of your best qualities is never showing up unannounced. Why are you tainting your track record?"

Narcissa handed him a cup as she said, "As loyal as Olive is to you, sweetheart, she could not keep your father from finding out you had yet to show up at the office. When three hours passed, he was positive you had run off to another country for a day-long bender. Of course, I had to remind him you are a married man now and Hermione would never allow you to do such a thing."

"Why would I—" Draco stopped, recalling Olive's text to Hermione. If she had asked Hermione to fill him up with liquor and his father assumed he had left the country...that only meant one thing. "Fucking hell."

He would have thrown the teacup if it not been for Hermione taking it when his hands balled into fists.

"What's wrong?" Hermione asked.

"I'm not going," Draco said to his mother, not hearing Hermione at all when anger pulsated in his eardrums. "I went last year. Father promised I was in the clear for at least three more years."

"Yes," Narcissa conceded, "but things were different last year. You did not have Malfoy Industries backing up a foreign, startup company that still needs the approval of half our partners."

Draco pressed his lips into a tight line. He could not argue his mother on that, could he?

"A dinner is to be had this evening for all of the partners of Malfoy Industries," Narcissa informed Hermione when the latter was looking skeptically at Draco, obviously wondering what had changed his mood so quickly. "Draco is an incredibly savvy businessman, but a complete brute when it comes to dealing with the partners. Usually he takes Blaise to these, but seeing as you are his wife now—"

"Yes, of course I'll go," Hermione said before Mrs. Malfoy could finish her sentence. She placed a hand on Draco's knee, making him blink those silver eyes of his at her brown ones. When the silent question of _'you will?'_ played in his eyes, she said, "I may have passed on the offer for Head Healer, but I am still required to meet and dine with the donors of St. Mungo's. Most of these events are completely grim, so I understand your distaste for them. But like your mother said, you have me now."

Draco thought he was going to lean in and kiss Hermione senseless (and he really wanted to), but instead he took his teacup from her hands. He granted her a small smile before taking a sip out of the cup.

Narcissa was five minutes into explaining the function to Hermione when Delta popped into the sitting room. Hermione gave a little jump at her appearance (seeing as she was the only one who had never been accustomed to having a house-elf serve her), but Draco and Narcissa only greeted her with a nod.

"Sorry, Mistress," Delta's ears drooped as she approached Hermione, her big, purple eyes wide with true apology, "but there's a Floo Call for you, Mistress. Delta tells Misses Ginger Mistress is busy attending to Master's mother, but Misses Ginger insists."

"Ginger?"

"Weasley," huffed Draco into his teacup. "The Weaslette to be specific."

Hermione furrowed her brows. "You made Delta call Ginny 'Ginger'?"

"It's a better alternative than what I originally wanted her to call that menace," he said with an unapologetic grin.

Hermione grabbed the nearest throw pillow and smacked him on the face with it. "If you can't seem to remember your manners, Draco, neither will I."

It was strange to see Draco react in any way that was not aggressive and cold, but somehow Narcissa was not exactly shocked to hear her son's laugh ringing throughout the sitting room. There was something different about him. Something Hermione Granger was responsible for. Draco was a glimmer of what Narcissa had hoped his life to be; something close to happy and carefree.

"Go ahead, dear," Narcissa said with a smile directed at Hermione, "answer your call."

With a sly pinch to Draco's elbow, Hermione excused herself before following Delta to the master bedroom of the flat. When Narcissa heard the immediate muffled conversation being exchanged, she let her inquisitive blue eyes roam over her son.

"I know all about your slip to Daphne Greengrass."

Draco's grip tightened on the fragile handle of the teacup again, his jaw squaring. "Father told you, I see."

"Quite the contrary, sweetheart. He thinks he can keep this from me, but he forgets that I know everything that happens within my family. Lucius instructing you to use your marriage to Hermione for the company's gain is one of them."

"Now is not the time, Mother," he said, but there was a hint of a warning in the words.

"Of course not," Narcissa returned, "but do not forget who your enemies are."

Before Draco could question his mother on what exactly she had meant, Hermione strolled back into the living room, a dilemma flashing across her her brown gaze.

"Bad news?" he asked when he reached for her hand, pulling her back to the space beside him.

Hermione shook her head. "No, not bad, just that I'm a terrible person. With everything that has been going on, I completely forgot it's Mr. Weasley's birthday today. They are expecting us for a celebratory brunch at the Burrow."

" _Us?_ "

"Oh, that is perfectly all right, Hermione," said Narcissa with a laugh at her conflicted expression. "We can reschedule lunch for another time. After all, I will see you two later tonight."

"You will?"

"Yes, Draco, I will," it was Narcissa's turn to lace her words with a heed she expected her son to follow. "Now, you two go and get ready. Do not keep the Weasleys waiting."

The day he had to meet the Weasleys and Co. as Hermione's husband, Draco was dreading the idea for such news to come to light. Now, with that truth revealed, with that truth now fast becoming a concrete bond rather than a terrible mistake in his mind, Draco found himself embarrassingly nervous about stepping foot at the Burrow. She must have sensed his hesitance, because as they dressed in silence Hermione would often come around to his side and trace comforting circles on his back. She did not say the words he was not entirely sure he wanted to hear, but knowing that she was there, that she was willingly allowing him in on an intimate moment with the people she considered family, well... _Fuck._

Once dressed in casual attire (well, Hermione was, but somehow Draco still looked like he was going to the fashion capital), warm cloaks over their shoulders to protect them from the cold, they walked to the nearest apparition point with clasped hands.

"Hermione!" squealed Mrs. Weasley the second she and Draco crossed the threshold that led to the garden. Arms were wrapped around Hermione, followed by kisses to the cheek; before he knew it, Draco was caught in the same whirlwind of red hair and genuine sentiment. "Draco! So happy to have you both here. Come, come! There's plenty of food!"

Draco wanted to whisper to Hermione that he now understood why the Weasel had packed on a few pounds since their Hogwarts days (Mrs. Weasley always seemed to have some sort of feast prepared), but the words died in his throat when he came upon a woman he had only ever seen in old photographs.

Andromeda Tonks had the misfortune of inheriting all the essential Black traits. She was all dark, cascading hair and dark, unnerving eyes; tall and poised, austere and cold. He could have mistaken her for Bellatrix, but Andromeda's ice cracked and melted when a little boy with bright turquoise hair tugged at her left hand, pointing a finger forward.

Draco blanched at the kid's action, but he quickly realized it was Hermione whom he was looking at.

Andromeda released his hand and the little boy ran forward, throwing his skinny arms around Hermione's hips.

"Oh, no," she gasped dramatically, "this can't be Teddy Lupin. Last I saw him he was this small," she gestured to her knee, earning a laugh from the child, "now he is way up here. Men that height do not get lollies from their Aunt 'Mione."

Teddy lowered himself from the tips of his toes. "I'm still a boy," he laughed again, "just one who's determined to be taller than Vic."

"Victoire is half Weasley, sweetheart," Hermione said lightheartedly, ruffling Teddy's hair, "she is always going to be taller than you. That family has to be part-giant."

George threw a balled napkin at Hermione from his seat next to his girlfriend Angelina Johnson. "You can't pick on us just because you're a Malfoy now."

While she frowned at him (even though George and some of the others laughed), Teddy blinked grey eyes at the man standing next to Hermione.

"Nan says you got married," he told her.

Hermione glanced over at Andromeda, who remained in her position, carefully surveying the situation with narrowed eyes. All Hermione needed was one look; if she did not want Teddy to interact with Draco, Hermione would not overstep. After all, it had to be Andromeda's choice to allow her living relatives in and mend the bloody rift that had forced them on different sides so many decades ago.

Andromeda nodded once, eyes flickering between the newly married couple before turning to the table to pick up her flute of champagne. Hermione did not miss Ginny squeezing her elbow, silently thanking her for the decision.

"I _did_ get married," Hermione said, bent on her knees to get a good look at Teddy. "Would you like to meet my husband?"

Teddy nodded immediately.

"Ted, this is Draco Malfoy. Draco, this is little Teddy Lupin." Hermione rose back to her height, smiling at the two despite her heart banging unevenly in her chest.

Draco had no experience whatsoever with children. In fact, he often avoided them whenever a partner's wife or husband tried to bring them to Malfoy Industries for a look-around. But this was not any child. This was Teddy Lupin, his second cousin. Son of his mother's niece.

"Do you love 'Mione?" asked Teddy, his head tilted to the side as he observed Draco. "Because Nan says you need to love someone to marry them."

"Not true, Ted," chimed George from his seat again, biting into an orange wedge with a smirk. "Look at Harry and Ginny."

Harry turned red at the reminder, but Ginny reached for the butter knife at the side of her plate. "Just think about how much it'll hurt, George," she said, pointing the silverware at him. "I've always wanted a sister."

George was not easily intimidated, but when he was, Ginny was the cause.

"You'll be good to 'Mione, right?" Teddy then asked. "Because she's the best."

Draco swallowed the uneasiness to say, "Yeah, kid. I will be good to her."

That was all Teddy needed to hear to grant Draco a toothy grin and pointing out the feast Mrs. Weasley had made. He told Draco to try the mince pies, his favorites.

Hermione smiled, proud of the exchange. She reached for Draco's hand again, pulling him in the direction of the table. She first made them stop beside Mr. Weasley to wish him a happy birthday (she gave him a tight hug and kiss upon his cheek), then they took their seats next to Bill and Fleur Weasley.

Draco did not miss the fact that they were strategically seated away from the Weasel and Potter (the redhead numpty had not stopped glaring at Draco and Hermione since they arrived, and Saint Potter was actively ignoring them). He was more than perfectly okay with the arrangement, but he could tell from the slight crease on Hermione's forehead that she was not. Grudgingly, Draco had to admit that it must not be ideal for her to be quarreling with her best friends (even if he thought they were undeserving of that title).

Fortunately ( _surprisingly_ ) the eldest of the Weasley children and his veela wife proved to be more than pleasant companions. While at first they only addressed Hermione (something about Fleur's pregnancy), Bill mentioned he had read in _The_ _Potioneer_ that Malfoy Industries was going green with their potions department.

Hermione grinned to herself as Draco explained all the details of this new investment. He was so wrapped up in it, he did not notice when Pansy came out huffing from the kitchen, eyes narrowed in frustration, demanding Hermione to take over baking the sugar cookies Mrs. Weasley had asked her to bring to the brunch.

"Why would she ask _me_ to bake?" Pansy stomped her heeled foot, dusting herself from the flour on her tight dress. "I've told her plenty of times that I don't even know what a kitchen looks like, let alone how to use one."

Hermione patted her shoulder gently. "Sugar cookies are rather simple to make from scratch, Pansy." This earned her a glare. "But in Molly's defense, she told you to _bring_ them, not bake them. She doesn't judge you for not being able to cook, especially since she taught Ronald how to fend for himself."

Pansy flashed her glare at her fiance currently stuffing his face among his family. "That bastard said he didn't even know how to make scrambled eggs."

"Ron's lazy," Hermione reminded. "That's hardly a surprise."

Before Pansy could get more upset, Hermione told her to take her seat, enjoy the lemon cake Fleur had delivered from France, and drink an entire bottle of champagne if she needed it. She then walked to the Burrow's kitchen, grabbing an old apron from the stack as she waved her wand to clean up the mess Pansy left behind.

She was placing a new baking sheet on a tray while the first batch was baking when Draco entered the kitchen. He stayed by the door for a few minutes before moving to approach her.

"I've been thinking," he said while resting his chin on her shoulder, arms wrapped around her middle, "I should meet your parents."

Hermione's fingers stopped kneading the dough laid out on the baking sheet. Draco felt her hold her breath for a second before turning around, careful not to touch his expensive attire with her hands covered in flour and sugar.

"You want to meet my parents?"

There was an unquestionable apprehension in her voice that Draco could not blame her for. He did not have the best record when it came to dealing with her Muggle heritage, after all.

"Hermione," he said, hands on her waist again, "You've willingly sat through a meal with my parents—people you have a complicated history with. Fuck, this entire marriage is a constant reminder to a terrible past between us, yet you're still here. The least I can do is meet your parents."

"Don't do it out of obligation," she mumbled.

"It's not. I want to get to know your family. Hell, I want to get to know _you_."

It took Hermione a moment, but eventually a smile appeared on her pink lips. Happiness made her glow inside out as she raised herself on her toes to kiss him.

When his left hand went to the back of her neck to pull her closer to him, she forgot all about her dirty hands when she gripped the front of his grey jumper. Having started off jubilant and sweet, the kiss now intensified; Draco felt his blood burn, eager for more of her, and by the way she hooked her leg over his hip, he knew she felt the same.

Unfortunately, they were not alone. Or in their flat. Alike that same morning, they were interrupted, but this time by bare feet stampeding down the old wooden floor, bringing in Teddy and Victoire to the kitchen with Harry close behind them.

"Draco, come play with us!" Teddy exclaimed, rushing up to Draco to tug on his arm, effectively pulling him from Hermione. "George and Charlie let us use their old brooms!"

Hermione could not help the laughter that bubbled in her chest from ringing out when Victoire launched herself at Draco, too, clutching on to his knees while standing on his shoes.

"I wanna be on your team!" she said, giant blue eyes beaming up at him. "Teddy and Uncle Georgie cheat!"

"We don't!" protested Teddy.

"Do too!"

"Don't!"

Draco automatically flashed Hermione a pleading look, but it then quickly transformed to an unexpected smirk when his silver eyes met Victoire as he said, "Good news, kid: I cheat, too. We've got this."

As he was being dragged off by the two excited children, Harry moved to place an empty glass in the sink. He crossed his arms over his chest, leaning against the sink to watch his best friend kneading cookie dough. It took him a moment to say, "You're happy."

"Yeah," she breathed as a pink flush took over her cheeks, "I think I am."

"Did you not expect to be?"

"Harry," warned Hermione. "Don't start. I get enough grief from Ron, I don't need it from you, too."

"Can you blame him? You married Malfoy. _Malfoy_ , Hermione."

Hermione punched the dough after sprinkling in more sugar. "Yes, I'm aware I married Draco. I _do_ sleep next to him every night, Harry. So if you and Ronald are waiting for me to ask for your permission for it to stay that way, you've got another thing coming."

Harry left the side of the sink to approach her. He has known her for years, what seemed like so many lifetimes now, so he knew better than to close distance between them when she was upset, but he did so anyway. He put a hand on her shoulder, making her turn so she could get a good look at him. He needed her to see the affection in his green eyes that would always be there for her.

Hermione slapped his chest three times, leaving handprints on his red jumper.

"I'm not waiting for you to ask for my permission—Ron might be, but luckily that's _your_ mess to deal with and not mine," he said with a slight chuckle that made Hermione scoff in annoyance. "I just worry about you. Especially after what happened with Finn and Lottie can't blame me for that, can you? You're my sister, Hermione. I don't want to see you get hurt again."

It was difficult for Hermione not to flinch when that name was mentioned. Just because skin and bone hid it, that did not mean the wound that was Finn Conrad did not still bleed and sting. It was a betrayal that would need more than a year to mend. Still, she could comprehend Harry's wariness (for that and more) when it came to her marriage to Draco. There was one important thing, however, that they needed to understand. Herself included.

It was this: "Draco is not Finn."

"He's not," said Harry with a solemn nod, "but Conrad isn't Malfoy, either."

"Do you condemn him for being a Death Eater? Because there are many who were once associated to Voldemort that you now call friends, Harry."

Harry pressed his lips into a tight line. When a long minute of silence had passed between the two, he sighed in what Hermione knew was resignation. "I'm no better than Ron, am I?"

"No," Hermione said with a frown. "You both seem to be able to forgive others, but not Draco. If _I_ can, why can't you?"

It was complicated, yet it was not; Harry could not exactly explain it. As such, he settled on saying, "For what it's worth, Ron nor I think there's anyone in this bloody world good enough for you. It's not an excuse for us to be shit people, but it's all I've got."

"It's all you'll give me," she corrected.

Harry leaned in to press a kiss on her head. "It'll try," he promised with a twinge of hesitance. "The past is the past and Malfoy is in your future."

"You sound like Luna."

"She might have popped around the Auror Department a few days ago for what was a bizarre scolding," Harry said with a laugh before heading back out to the garden.

The rest of the afternoon passed without a hitch (well, except for the impromptu Qudditch match that ended with Ron sporting a broken nose and Harry not calling foul on Bill and Draco's team). Hermione could not remember when was the last time she enjoyed the company of her friends. Regrettably, she knew it had been _too_ long. She did visit the Weasleys whenever she could get away from the hospital, but it had been a rare thing the previous months. The hit she took from Finn Conrad had caused far more damage to every aspect of Hermione's life than she originally thought; she could not look good, honest people in the eye and not feel like an abomination. So she poured herself into her work, often going seventy-two hours straight without stepping foot in her own home. Everyone worried, of course, and Hermione would always say she was fine. Then Draco Malfoy happened.

"You're staring at me, Hermione," he said, silver eyes peering at her from the reflection of the long mirror in his walk-in closet. "Do you hate the tie?"

Hermione stood from the small stool at the corner of the closet, letting the tail of her gown pool around her bare feet. His eyes roamed her body, appraising for the hundredth time the long-sleeved, tight, icy silver dress with the plunging neckline. As she moved toward him, the light of the room beamed off the material of her dress, making her a beacon. She could see him focus on her blood-red painted lips; she wanted nothing more than to kiss him, test the expensive lipstick's staying power, but instead her fingers moved to help fix his tie.

"I have to tell you something," she whispered, her tone uneven.

It made Draco furrow his brows. He touched her chin, gently pulling it up so her eyes found his. "You do hate the tie?"

Hermione laughed, smoothing down the satin, silver tie that almost perfectly matched the color of her gown. "No, your mother's gifts are of great taste. I just...I need to tell you...Thank you." She smiled now. "For coming with me to the Burrow. I know it couldn't have been easy given our pasts, but it meant so much to me."

While she could not kiss him, that did not mean Draco could not kiss her. He tenderly pressed his lips to her cheek before saying, "Weasleys aren't as dangerous as you make them out to be, Hermione. But the pit of snakes we have to walk into tonight, that _can_ be. Thank you for agreeing to it."

She hummed when he then moved his lips to her neck for a sinfully short kiss. "Do I still have to wear heels?"

He spun her around, swatting her butt and then telling her they had five minutes before his mother returned to tug them both by the ear and into the Floo for the dreaded dinner party.

The first partners dinner of the year was held at Malfoy Manor where Mrs. Malfoy outdid herself every time, but the ones after that were held at one of the board members homes. This year—because Fate was a downright bitch—the honor belonged to Wulfric Macnair. If Draco did not hate the old bastard, he perhaps _could_ have something positive to say about the scenery he and Hermione walked into.

The Macnair ballroom had been transformed into bright gold. The walls were lined with intricate, yellow gold detail that curved and blossomed into vines roping together into more arches. These enveloped the rectangular glass on the walls that made the room appear wider than it actually was. Along these intricate walls were curious gilded lanterns that gave out overwhelming golden light that drowned the room and brought it to life. This light allowed the guests to marvel at the painted ceiling depicting one breathtaking battle of Good vs. Evil. At the center of the room was a long glass table whose base was the same gold as the walls, but had elaborate white roses engraved and bursting from every aureate leaf. The chairs' cushions were pearl white, while their legs were gold, and the place sets on the crystal tabletop mirrored the color-scheme with golden vases hosting white roses were also placed along the middle of the table.

"I thought you said this was a simple dinner?" Hermione whispered to Draco as they awaited to be greeted by their host.

"We're a bunch of rich arseholes, Hermione," he replied. "Did you really think we wouldn't parade that money around? Especially if other rich arseholes are coming into our home?"

Hermione suppressed her urge to laugh when Lucius Malfoy cleared his throat behind her. She could not help the shiver that ran up her spine at remembering his proximity. It took her a few seconds to school her expression from its automatic, weary reflex.

"Explains my dress," she said when she found her voice. "I thought your mother was overdoing it."

Draco did not care about his parents' presence; as such, he let out a snort just as the couple before them walked off once their pleasantries to their host had been given.

If she were being absolutely honest, Hermione had not been expecting Wulfric Macnair to be a rather charismatic man given Draco's undeniable abhorrence for him. However, the man before them had a welcoming smile that accentuated all the sharp, attractive angles of his face. He had deep blue eyes that were illuminated by the white hair on his head, and a body that still appeared to be strong and defined given his obvious older age.

"Miss Granger—"

"Mrs. Malfoy, actually," Draco interrupted Macnair's greeting, raising Hermione's hand so the diamond ring on her finger could catch the golden light of the room. It beamed iridescently, like a lighthouse giving signal to those lost at sea.

"Hermione will do," she said with a polite smile as Macnair took her hand from Draco's hold. "Thank you so much for having us this evening."

Macnair pressed a kiss over her knuckles, his grin widening with dark mirth when Draco glared at his action. "The pleasure is all mine, I assure you. In fact, I think tonight has to be your night, Hermione, because the Kinomoto family is also present. They are our newest members from Japan, and Mr. Takumi Kinomoto is looking to carry on his charitable work here in Britain. Perhaps you can tell him all about your work at St. Mungo's before our evening begins."

"That's very lovely of you, Mr. Macnair—"

"Wulfric, please."

" _Wulfric_ ," Hermione amended with another smile, "but I belong at my husband's side tonight."

"Nonsense," said Macnair. "Draco did not marry someone as spirited as you just to tame her. Isn't that right, Draco?"

Draco was sure he had to be the first human in existence to be able to radiate out his revulsion for someone with just his eyes.

"It's settled then." Macnair carefully reeled Hermione closer to him, tucking her arm beneath his. "Tell me, Hermione, exactly how Draco manage to win you over. I doubt it was his charming personality that did it—on account of it being nonexistent."

"I'll kill him," Draco hissed, already taking a step forward as Macnair led Hermione away.

Lucius gripped his son's elbow, keeping him in place. "You will behave yourself like the well-mannered boy your mother thinks she raised," he warned. "He is your deciding vote. It will do you well to remember that."

In years past, when Draco was forced by his father to attend these pointless dinners, he would bring Blaise along so the night could reach a few degrees before tolerable (shitfest was the highest ranking of approval Draco had given these gatherings). They would head directly to the open bar, ordering consecutive shots before the guests were even asked to take their seats. This behavior could have earned him (and probably had, but just less publicly) significant disapproval from board members, but most had children Draco's age that would join him and Blaise at the bar, getting rowdier and sloppier than the former. It provided him with steady entertainment when business matters were being discussed and those light-weight heirs could not stop giggling or hiccuping over their premium steaks.

This night, however, Draco was shocked to realize he had only needed one glass of bourbon to call the affair tolerable. Of course, it was all because of Hermione— _his wife_. Although she never asked nor needed the attention of a room, her mere presence commanded it. Every eye in that ballroom was drawn to her; every ear perked, intent on catching every word that passed those glorious lips whenever she was asked a question. Her responses were so eloquent and humble and kind that even Lucius Malfoy kept his face free from sneers whenever she was speaking.

"My daughter-in-law has the highest record of recovering burn victims in the country," he had even said, causing both Draco and Hermione to openly gape at him (both slightly unsure how he even knew that). "People all over the world come to St. Mungo's to be treated by her."

Although part of him missed the freedom that came with being reckless, Draco could not deny what Hermione was offering seemed far more enticing than anything he had done or been in the past. He wanted to tell her just that, but when the meal and the forced socialization that came after was finished, she gave him a look that told him she already knew.

"You're probably tired of hearing company talk," he said, a hand on her back as he steered her back to the entrance hall of the Macnair home. "It's not as entertaining as hearing Charlie Weasley's tales of dragon training, or the new curses Bill creates for Gringotts to protect vast amounts of treasure."

"I find it admirable, actually," she said to him, taking his hand with her own. She squeezed his fingers, smiling beautifully at him before saying, "You're an _environmentalist_. Pushing for organic compounds and natural ingredients instead of the poisonous chemicals most potion labs use is proof of that. Most admirable of all, Draco, you believe in someone else's work. I'm sure Mr. Rivera is a genius if he has you fighting for his company."

Draco was not entirely sure why his heart picked up in rhythm, practically bruising his bones, but he was sure that all he wanted— _needed_ —to do was appraise Hermione from head to toe. His entire being was begging him to do so; it begged him to take her lips hostage, press her warm, soft body against his and create wave after wave of bliss for them to drown themselves in.

Yet Fate kept cock-blocking his day. First with his mother, then with Teddy and Victoire, and now with fucking Macnair. He strut his way over to the couple once the Kinomoto family disappeared through the Floo.

"You have effectively charmed Takumi Kinomoto, Hermione. He has promised to stop by the hospital later this week to discuss donations."

Hermione blushed, but it was not do to the flattery she was getting from Macnair. She was almost positive the room was filling with the sound of her body reacting to the lustful gaze Draco had given her.

"Thank you," she cleared her throat. "St. Mungo's would not be receiving that donation if it weren't for you, Mr. Macnair."

"You are a brilliant Healer, I'm sure," said Macnair, grinning dangerously again. "But I figured if Draco is getting a good deal from your marriage, there is no reason why you should not be rewarded, too. After all, you are the unlucky soul who married the boy."

 _Fuck_. _Fuck_. _Fuck_.

"A dickhead as always," Draco said immediately past gritted teeth as he pulled Hermione a little too harshly. "This is where my wife and I call it an evening. Unfortunately, now we must go home and wash off the Macnair stench that—"

"What do you mean 'a good deal'?" asked Hermione, turning on her heels as Draco attempted to drag her into the Floo.

Macnair raised a brow at her. "I am not judging you on it, believe me, Hermione. I just did not think you were _that_ close to Draco to get roped up in this."

"In what?"

"Hermione, let's just—"

" _In_ _what_?" she repeated, ignoring Draco as he gave their clasped hands another tug.

"In Draco's quest to get all the board members to approve this little business venture of his. That is why he let the news of your marriage slip to Daphne Greengrass, is it not? I will hand it to him, though; he is clever. The board is practically dripping with excitement for what his union to you, _Hermione Granger_ , is going to do to our stocks."

Hermione's hand fell limp against Draco's. She held her breath for a moment before turning to face him. "Did you tell Daphne Greengrass?"

Draco pressed his lips into a tight line.

"Answer me. Did you tell Daphne Greengrass where to find us that day?"

"I didn't have another choice," he said without a trace of emotion, his silver eyes also going void. " _You_ didn't give me another choice. But that was then, Hermione. What we have now—"

Draco did not continue his sentence; Hermione cut it short when her free hand collided with his cheek.

"I was hounded by the media," she hissed, pulling herself back. Draco let her hand go. "I still am—my friends and coworkers, too. _For_ _what?_ "

He tried to reach for her, but she smacked his hand away. He was not sure what he could say, how he could explain this mess to her, but the words were not coming out. Which seemed to be the only thing going in his favor because Hermione was not sticking around for answers.

She grabbed her black clutch from the house-elf at the corner of the Floo. She did not go into it, but instead stormed out past the doors of the Macnair home.

"Spirited," said Macnair with a contemplative tone, smiling at the apparition noise that echoed in the night. "I told you, she is not someone you can tame."

Lucius had warned his son to behave himself, but Draco was past the point of following social propriety. As such, he punched Wulfric Macnair until he heard bone crack.


	11. Tequila Chance

Wulfric Macnair had not pressed charges on Draco Malfoy after it took one wailing house-elf, two shocked board members, and a furious Lucius Malfoy to stop the assault the latter insisted on worsening. Sure, Draco had broken Macnair's nose, chipped and knocked out several teeth, busted his bottom lip, bruised his left eye, splintered a rib, and dislocated his right shoulder, but that was hardly enough punishment. He vowed to murder him with his bare hands as he was being dragged away by his father, but all that could be heard was Macnair's delighted laughter echoing behind them.

While Draco had been serious on killing Macnair, neither he nor anyone else believed it would come to that. For his behavior, he was simply suspended from work until the board deemed him stable enough to return.

Draco could give fuck all about returning to work after the disastrous dinner with those pathetic dinosaurs any other day, but this time around the silence in his flat was maddening. Once before he thought the sound of nothing was sweet and comforting, but Hermione was not there. He thought she would be; he thought he would return home, red-knuckled, awaiting her screams of fury to rattle the walls, but she was gone. Only the books on his center table, her favorite mug on the kitchen counter, and her beast of a cat were the only trace of evidence she had once even been there at all.

"Mister Malfoy!" squeaked an intern by the name of Sanderson (or whatever) when he saw Draco exit the Floo in the main lobby of Malfoy Industries. His eyes were wide with fear as his fingers fidgeted toward his wand on the reception desk. "Sir, with all due respect, your father said you were not allowed—"

"With all due respect, Sydney, _fuck off,_ " Draco hissed as he entered the empty lift up to his floor.

When the doors of the lift parted, Draco expected to find Olive at her desk, smirk on her face, and a shot glass in her hand. He was wrong. There was no Olive, no smirk, but there was a bottle of tequila on her empty desk beside a stack of his mail. He grabbed the bottle, scanning the tag wrapped around the neck with a string of yarn that read:

 _Arriba. Abajo. Pal centro. Pa'dentro._

 _Here's a token of my gratitude from my homeland._

 _C. Rivera._

Shane choose that moment to stomp up from the staircase, heaving as he flushed red from his run. "Sir," he wheezed, "you cannot be on the premise until—"

"I won't be taking any visitors today. Understood?" Draco marched toward his office, waving a wrist so the doors would open and allow him in. They closed behind the intern just as he was sputtering out more protests.

He settled on his chair, pulling open the bottom drawer of his desk to retrieve one of the many spare shot-glasses he had lying around.

From the moment he opened the cap on the bottle until there was a loud, annoying knock on his office door, Draco did not know how much time had passed. All he knew was that there stood Blaise.

"For fuck sakes, mate," he whistled, shaking his head at what he was looking in on. Simmons ( _what was his fucking name?_ ) hid behind him, cowering away from whatever curse Draco was going to send his way. He wanted to, he was about to (he warned him about visitors, hadn't he?), but something seemed off about Blaise. Draco hadn't seen him in over a week, and now he was blurred around the edges (or perhaps that was just half the bottle of tequila fucking with his eyesight). "I know you own the company, but I'm pretty sure you can still get sacked for being hammered on the job."

Draco blinked back down to his glass, quite tempted to throw the thing at Blaise, but instead he refilled it. When the golden liquid splashed onto his desk, he swept it into the glass. Blaise scrunched his nose when Draco shot it back.

"Haven't seen you this fucked up since Astoria burned your last flat down," Blaise added, closing the door on Smithers.

"Why are you here?" Draco grumbled as Blaise approached the desk, frowning at the memory of his vengeful ex-girlfriend standing over the ashes of his valuables.

"I brought over some files the Ministry needed—"

"So you're not just Potter's bitch, but his owl, too?"

Blaise's jaw squared and ticked when he clenched his teeth together. Although it was hard to believe, he tended to thoroughly process his thoughts before speaking them out loud. Draco knew there were a few creative insults he desperately wanted to hurl at him, but instead Blaise said, "Someone said I should come see you. I figured you'd still be cross with me, so I needed an excuse to intercept you. This was it."

He dropped a file on Draco's cluttered desk.

After refilling his glass and taking another swig of tequila, Draco hissed, "Remind me to have Lovegood fucking demented bint can't share confidential information with the twat she's occasionally shagging."

If it had not been for the alcohol he had been drinking since he stepped foot into Malfoy Industries, Draco would have seen the punch coming. Really, he would have. Blaise was a real fucking gent when it came to some fair maiden's honor (the poor pussy-whipped prat). He stumbled out of his chair after Blaise launched over, groaning more in despair for his bottle of tequila smashing from the fall than the throbbing of his nose.

"Luna isn't just a shag, you areshole," Blaise snarled. "She's important to me and I've fucking had it with you undermining that. I don't even know why she thinks you're worth saving since you'll always be a fucking twat."

Draco grieved his broken bottle for a few more seconds before sitting up. He felt his nostrils drip blood down to his top lip as he narrowed dark, silver eyes at Blaise. "Then fucking _leave,_ Zabini. You always were."

Blaise stood absolutely still. Nothing crossed his dark features as he fixed his own sharp gaze on Draco. In the next moment, he rolled his eyes and moved to the other side of the desk. He kicked the chair out of the way to extend a hand out.

"No," he grunted, "I was never going to leave, dickhead. I don't know why, but you're my best mate. That means something, doesn't it?"

Draco took his hand, allowing to be helped up to his feet. "It means you have great taste," he scoffed, "in _friends_ , at least. In women...well, it's always been questionable."

"I don't have a problem breaking your jaw, too," Blaise threatened.

Draco let out a loud, humorless laugh as he marched over to the cabinet at the end of his office. He had a bottle of vodka stashed there for the days Olive did not want to break their two-shots-a-day rule when things got particularly tough.

"Luna didn't send me," Blaise said. "Although, she did show up at the Auror Department to yell at us the other day. It was odd, even for her."

"Then?"

"It was Potter, actually."

Draco stopped scavenging past old letters and dusty books (he wouldn't put it past Olive to have found the vodka and flushed it down the toilet, that heartless bitch) to look back over his shoulder. "Potter? Saint Potter? The Boy-Who-Would-Not-Die? _That_ Potter?"

Blaise mind as well live with his eyes rolled to the back of his head whenever he was in proximity to Draco. The fucker really was insufferable.

"It's not a bloody secret that we're stubborn, you and me," he continued, "and let's face it, it would've taken ages for this row to end. Potter knows that, I guess, because he mentioned how draining it is to be upset at your best mate over something you can't understand."

They stared at one another, eyes locked, emotions out there in the open, and Draco really wanted to throw _himself_ out the fucking window of his office. Of course (deep, deep down) he wanted things with Blaise to go back to normal, to find neutral ground in all of these changes, but he was too emotionally challenged to deal with them. The tequila in his system was not doing much to make the situation tolerable, either.

Still, he thought of _her_ —he thought of his wife, and how she made him want to live on the other side of his demons.

Hermione made him want to be brave.

"Lovegood isn't the problem," Draco forced himself to say. "It's what she represents—what they all represent. They are everything the world reminds me I'm not worthy of having. I thought you understood, I thought that's why we were best mates."

Blaise was having a difficult time with opening up, too. Draco could see that, but he was a better man. A _cured_ man. "Who the fuck knows why we're best mates, Draco; what I do know is that I didn't want to keep despising myself for something I had no control over. We were young, surrounded by bigots who spoonfed us pureblood mania. I just wanted my second chance at something better."

"And Lovegood was your second chance?"

"No," Blaise replied truthfully. "The thing with Luna...it happened out of nowhere. One minute she was just this person with odd stories about her adventures in the Amazonian rainforest, and in the next, I found myself asking about her and lingering by her Department just to have a conversation with her, or by the very least get a glimpse of her."

Draco stopped himself from chuckling at that when he recalled plenty of times when Blaise walked with him to his Evaluations. He had assumed his friend was just being a nosy twat, but in reality, he was playing the field for Lovegood (it was sort of pathetic, really).

"Do you remember Penelope Clearwater? She was a Ravenclaw, a few years older than us?"

Draco gave him a nod. Of course he remembered Clearwater. In fact, he remembered everyone who was petrified by the monster of the chamber of secrets. He had been a very awful boy who had found amusement at all the names on that list.

Blaise's expression grew somber as he glanced down at the scattered papers on Draco's desk. He smudged a blotch of ink further on one of the archives before he looked up. "I was there when she was brought in. Snape had just locked you inside your bedroom to keep you from seeing the mess upon your mother's request. The interrogation went as it usually did, all blood and tears, but Yaxley...He made me take her to one of the empty rooms. He made me stand outside as he..."

He did not need to finish that sentence. Not only were Blaise's horrified eyes enough evidence at what came next, but Draco had heard the story. One of the many. Most Death Eaters were not satisfied with beating their victims into black and blue shades, but they often further humiliated and destroyed them by taking every precious thing they had before killing them. He just had not known Blaise had been forced to be an accomplice.

"You caught him," Draco muttered to his friend. "Two years ago. I remember."

"I wanted to kill him then," Blaise said in a low voice. "I thought I could get away with it because Weasley was outside the hideout, chasing down Rowle, but I had made an oath of honor and justice. So I brought him in. I brought him in and they locked him up in Azkaban. He got forty years."

Draco scoffed at that. Forty years was hardly enough punishment for someone like Yaxley. He had been one of the worst monsters the Dark Lord had created (only Bellatrix won him in degrees of ruthless).

"I pushed for the death penalty for a year. I brought case after case to the Wizengamot to further convict Yaxley, but nothing was happening. I grew angrier by the day, determined to have him legally offed, that I even resorted to blackmailing a few members of the council. One day, after another hearing, I was cornered by Penelope Clearwater. She had gotten word of what I was doing and said as admirable as that was, I needed to _stop_. She did not blame me for what Yaxley had done to her, so I needed to stop blaming myself. She had not forgotten the damage, but she had decided to stop living the nightmare. She went to therapy and learned to re-engage the world. She's Penelope Jordan now, a primary school teacher and a mother of two. She's _happy_."

His tortured expression had not exactly faded away, but there was a hint of a smile on Blaise's face now. "I didn't want to give my nightmares the power over me anymore, Draco. I wanted to live despite them, just how Penelope did. _That_ became my second chance."

Draco deserved the broken nose. He had not known much of Blaise's demons because he did not have the courage to look at others' without acknowledging his own. If he had spoken with his friend, if he had asked what memories of war kept him awake at night, then he would have known Blaise deserved to be where he was now. Just because Draco was perfectly fine with condemning himself into the darkness, that did not mean Blaise was not worthy of crossing into the light.

"I fucked up," he then admitted with a grunt, surprising Blaise at how easily that came out. "Lucius suggested I let it slip to the media that I had married Hermione. He was sure it would gain me favor with the board—"

"Wait. Wait," interrupted Blaise, his brows knitted, " _you_ told Daphne?For fuck sakes, mate; out of all the eager journalists out there, you told the one whose mother you shagged?"

"To be fair, if I had to talk to someone I had _not_ slept with or someone who did not know someone I slept with, there would be no one left."

Blaise crossed his arms over his chest, narrowing his eyes at him. "I'm assuming Hermione found out?"

Sighing, Draco gave him a solemn nod before moving back to search for his bottle of vodka.

"So you're giving yourself a celebratory hangover, then? I mean, you finally got what you wanted, right? She left."

With his back turned on Blaise, Draco allowed himself to cringe at the thought. Hermione _had_ left. The empty right side of his bed was proof of that. While, yes, a few weeks ago he had wanted nothing more than for her to disappear, now he could not stand not hearing her hum at her ugly cat, or recount anecdotes of her patients to him over breakfast, or the new things she learned from the research articles her fellow know-it-alls sent her to proofread before submitting them to credible magazines.

" _Fuck_ ," Blaise let out a loud, baffled chuckle. "You actually like her!"

"I do not," he grunted in defense for his self-preservation, but it hardly sounded believable even to his own ears. He sighed in defeat. "Fine. I might fancy her."

"Fancy," Blaise repeated with a snort. "Mate, you don't drink yourself into an early grave for a fucking crush. You actually _care_ about her."

"Well, now she's fucking gone," Draco returned sharply. "Like my fucking vodka. I looked for her at her old flat and the hospital. Neighbors nor coworkers have seen her. "

Something like sympathy flashed across Blaise's expression before he said, "I don't know, Draco. If Hermione isn't in St. Mungo's, I have no idea where she might have gone. That's her sanctuary. I do know, though, that there's no way in hell she would've gone to Potter or Weasley. They would just gloat about being right about you."

Draco glared as he turned to face Blaise again, but knew he was right. Hermione had never directly mentioned that the Dimwit Duo threw a fit objecting their marriage, but he had clocked in on their bitter attitude toward her. Seeing as everyone in this fucking world knew Hermione Granger was not to be intimidated, she stayed with him despite the disappointment from those she loved. Of course she would not go to them after Draco had—

" _Olive_ ," he hissed, distracting himself from his own train of thought.

Blaise raised a brow. "What?"

Draco did not bother to answer Blaise when he rushed past him, grabbing only his wand from the mess on his desk on the way out. He pushed past Scott to enter the closing lift, jabbing the button for the lobby.

If Hermione was missing, the only person savvy enough to find her was Olive Crabbe.

While Draco and Olive seemed to have a completely unorthodox working relationship, they were not friends (at least neither of them liked to refer to one another as such). Their communication took place strictly inside the walls of Malfoy Industries (and the occasional work-related dinner party), so there were established boundaries that were never to be breached. Their homes were the main line not to be crossed (usually, when he felt extra charitable, he would give her a discount to one of the many nightclubs he owned). Yet, when Draco was storming, a wooden door, a faulty ward, and an unspoken rule could not hold him back.

"Malfoy!" squealed Olive after she had fallen off her couch—well, off the husband she had been previously straddling before he kicked open the front door of her small cottage located near Kensington.

"I told you that ward wasn't strong enough," Cyrus Amal (the husband) said to Olive as he sat up, reaching for a throw pillow on the floor to cover his exposed bits with. His wife shot him a glare, cheeks red from anger and not embarrassment. Immediately, Cyrus looked away, clearing his throat as he stood, still holding the pillow firmly to himself. "I'll go find us some clothes."

Unabashed, Olive pulled herself up to her feet, not making any move to fetch a near pillow to cover herself up with. Draco grimaced at the sight as he moved to the clean, un-christened (at least he hoped it was) beige armchair with a green pillow and brown quilt.

"Don't make that face," she huffed at him with indignation. "I just started running last week. I'm looking fit."

Draco made a heaving sound before he narrowed his silver eyes at her. "You said Cyrus was in Brighton."

"He was," she growled, "but arrived today when I called him to say I was—"

"Don't lie to your boss, Crabbe," he interrupted. "It's in your employment contract, remember? I can fire you for this."

"Actually, she's Olive Amal around here," said Cyrus as he returned from down the hall that led to their bedroom. He was fully clothed now, bringing over a bright pink robe for his wife."She only uses her maiden name at work. And at the clinic. And the Ministry. Basically any place where she's legally forced to provide her true information."

"Mate, you married her. Don't close your eyes on your reality. Though, I won't blame you. She's insufferable."

"Don't force me to become like my family, Malfoy," Olive warned, "because I _will_ murder you."

"Muggle marriage is not recognized by your Ministry of Magic," Cyrus chimed in as he placed a hand on Olive's shoulder, holding her in place like he believed she would really launch herself at Draco and strike to kill. "Plus, it's illegal for a Muggle to live in Wizardying communities."

"Aren't you an officer for the Muggle police department?"

Cyrus shrugged, smiling easily. "I'm bound by honor, yeah, but the woman I love is a witch who wants to live in her birthplace. I follow my heart first, mate. It's stronger than any duty or law."

The Amals were on opposite sides of the spectrum when it came to physical appearance: while Olive was petite and pale, Cyrus was tall, built, and brown. Still, it was never a question as to who was the domineering one in the marriage. Olive shook off his hand with a shove to his ribcage, scoffing in distaste when she said, "Don't become a corny areshole, Cyrus. _Please_. I will divorce you if you start writing poems about the color of my eyes, I swear."

"Come on, Liv," her husband laughed. "I'm happy. You're—"

"Oi," grunted Draco, "speaking of divorces, I might be on the verge of one."

Olive snapped her neck in his direction, a glare already settling in on her face. "What did you do to 'Mione? For fuck sakes, Malfoy, I told you we were going to be best friends! Why are you ruining my life?"

Cyrus frowned and Draco rolled his eyes at her.

"She found out about the slip to Greengrass," he said. "She left and hasn't returned."

"I can't trust you with anything," Olive yelled at him again, moving to the kitchen that connected with her living room. She grabbed the cellphone that had been on the dining table, her fingers furiously tapping away.

"She really loves Hermione, you know," Cyrus muttered to Draco as he sat on the large couch beside the armchair he was occupying. "If you lost her, Liv _will_ kill you."

To that, Draco thought Cyrus was spot on.

Fortunately, there was a _ding_ and a victory laugh from Olive's place. Draco turned to the noise, unable to hide the desperation for good news from flashing across his pale features.

"She's with your mother."

Draco lost his balance, falling back down onto the armchair he had been getting up from. "What the fuck do you mean she's with my mother? How do you know that?"

Olive raised her phone, looking impatiently at him. "I texted her. She texted back."

He lunged for the device, yanking it out of her hands.

 _Hey, 'Mione; I currently have your husband at my house, stinking the place up like it's the Hogs Head. Mind telling me where you are so I can send him off to you? Thanks._

 _P.S. If you're really done with him, we can take half his money and run off together._

 _I'm with Narcissa. Send the git over, please._

 _Also, as lovely as that sounds, Liv, Cyrus seems like a good man._

"Yeah," Olive took her phone back, "next time you fuck it up, I'm stealing your wife. Now go to Malfoy Manor before she changes her mind."

Out of all the places in the world Hermione could have run off to seek asylum from his douchebag-ary, his family home did not even make the list of last-resort. If he could hardly step foot onto the expensive, plush, persian rugs that were strategically placed to hide the bloodstains of their victims on the ancient, marbled floors, he could not imagine how she could do it. He still heard her shrieks late at night, clawing at the walls just like Bellatrix had done to her skin.

But there she was: sat beneath a grand oak tree, the wind blowing past her brown curls, sending her aroma of cinnamon spice in all directions, twining with his mother's prized hydrangeas and the lavender of their hot tea. She was in the middle of an engaging conversation with his mother, whom appeared completely interested (not in the phony way she often tended to be when others spoke to her) in everything Hermione was saying. They shared a laugh that only fizzled away when he approached the garden table.

"Look at you," his mother said with a displeased sigh, one he remembers from his early childhood when he would return covered in mud (okay, it only happened once). The more her sharp blue eyes roamed over him, the more upset she appeared. "You did not get into another brawl, did you? We warned you about the legal repercussions this can have on your career."

Draco blinked away from his wife's brown eyes to give a second of his attention to his mother. "I insulted Lovegood. Blaise punched me."

Narcissa furrowed her brows, opening her mouth to further reprimand her son, but Hermione placed a hand gently over the hand that rested beside her plate of scones. "Can I have a moment with him, please?"

"Of course," his mother complied after a moment, a fond smile on her lips that made Draco uneasy.

When his mother was far enough from hearing range, Draco turned back to Hermione. He felt his breath hitch at just how beautiful she looked. It was like he was seeing her for the first time. And he was. He was no longer seeing the girl from his schooldays he had a complicated past with; he was seeing her as the woman who helped him put down his walls and step out into the sun.

He was seeing someone he wanted to spend his life with.

"I'm sorry."

For the first time in his life, those words left Draco Malfoy's mouth. And he meant them— _really_ meant them. He felt them, too; the aching guilt made his skin run cold, it made his fingertips numb, and his heart beat in fear that she would refuse him. She was the only person in the entire fucking world he needed forgiveness from for so many fucked up reasons. While this one was not the most important one on the list of terrible things he had done to her, it was the one he desperately needed.

He needed _her_. He needed her to _stay_.

"I was angry, Hermione," he continued. "I wanted the divorce and you refused to give it to me. I thought if you didn't want to leave, then I might as well milk it for all it was worth and kickoff Tierra Pura."

"You should have told me," she said with narrowed eyes. "I would have listened, Draco."

"I know," he admitted, "but I just wanted you gone then."

"Do you want me gone now?"

Draco moved to the vacant seat his mother had left. He wanted to reach out to touch her, to feel the warmth of her skin he has been missing (craving), but he settled his hands on the edge of the white metallic table. He looked at her, forcing all of his defense mechanisms to shut down so she could see the truth he was not entirely sure he was ready to confess. Yet, to have her, to have Hermione stay with him, he would swallow his pride a thousand times.

"I don't know how you feel about me, Hermione, but I do know how I feel about you. I know how I feel when I'm with you. I can't exactly word it right, but it feels like living again. _Really_ living. All this time I was just coasting through, hoping my fucking nightmares would not catch up to me, that I didn't search for more. I didn't think I deserved more. Then Blaise said his second chance was wanting a better life for himself, and I realized mine is _you_."

Fuck. He said it. The words came out of his mouth and a part of him that was terrified of vulnerability wanted to stuff them back in to avoid renouncing the control he had over his own life. But that control was gone. The power was all hers. It had been from the moment he saw her as this beautiful beacon of light that continued shining despite the cracks around the edges. It is why he spent all morning drinking, hoping all the poison will fill up the spaces she had opened and craved her name in.

It fucking _pained_ him to think she was never coming back because of what he had done. He drank because, of fucking course, he shattered the only invaluable thing he had been given because that is exactly what demons do.

Hermione reached for one of his hands, lacing her fingers with his to make him look back up at her. "I wasn't mad because you told Daphne Greengrass where to find us. After learning about your project, how can I? It's _revolutionary_ , Draco. It can change the amount of toxins released into the atmosphere by potions labs that test with—"

"Hermione," Draco cleared his throat.

"Right," she laughed, shaking her head as she had to subdue her unquenchable thirst for knowledge and her strive for righteousness. "I was mad because I was _scared_. I was scared all these great moment we shared were only lies. After what happened with Finn Conrad..."

Draco no longer had reservations about reaching out to touch her. His free hand went to rest at the side of her face, cupping her cheek as he let his silver eyes bore into her brown ones. "Listen to me, Hermione: I can't change what that arsehole did to you and I can't promise I'm going to get everything right, but I _can_ promise that I'm going to try to be better for you."

Tears glittered in her warm, tender gaze. It made Draco nervous. He was sure she was about to reject what he was offering her, but instead she said, "Don't be better for me, Draco. Be better for yourself."

"Just tell me you're going to stay," he said.

A tear rolled down her cheek, but she still smiled. There was a wave of something so honest in the way she looked at him, it made his heart rattle inside his chest.

"I was never going to leave," she murmured.

Then she leaned in to kiss him.

* * *

 **AN: Hey, guys! I'm SO sorry for going M.I.A again. I just started a new job and it is taking up so much of my time. I'm working on better managing my time, I promise. So, really, let me thank all of you who patiently wait and still leave really lovely reviews on every chapter. You are all the best.**


	12. Alternate World

They did not leave their bed for two days.

When they crossed through the front door, hands reaching out for clothes, fingers undoing buttons and lowering zippers, mouths pressing urgent kisses, tongues licking up edges and curves and lines, teeth leaving marks over invisible fingerprints, Draco forgot about the rest of the world. If the way she held onto him, if the way she chased his touch was any indication, then he knew Hermione forgot about the rest of the world, too.

He did not know when that happened—when she became the sun, moon, and the stars (how she became the very fucking air he breathed)—but he somehow could not bring himself to resent her for that. Even if he was terrified by it, by how much she had taken from him and claimed ownership on. He just wanted to show her what she meant to him.

Draco had been craving her body for days, but he forced the animalistic pull inside of him to simmer down, to hide away in the shadows until Hermione wanted that side of him to appear. So when he had her on the bed, her brown curls splayed out like a bronzed crown over her head, his desperate, claiming hands became gentle, praising caresses.

The look in her brown eyes almost made Draco falter. For a moment she looked at him with bewilderment, with fear—like she did not know (did not _believe_ ) he was capable of such tenderness. His insecurity must have broken past the dark silver of his eyes because in the next second she was pulling herself up, pressing her lips to his and moving his hands back on her waist.

Draco was never a worshipping man (he never understood the necessity to kneel before a person or a deity, not since bowing to a madman left only death, destruction, and darkness), but for Hermione he got on his knees and praised every centimeter of skin she had to offer. With his hands, tongue, and mouth, he tried to show her she was the embodiment of a heaven he never believed existed—a heaven that would never belong to people like him, people with a past covered in blood.

The moment after she climbed down of the blissful heights he took her to, Hermione opened her eyes, settling her erratic breath to say, "Wait, Draco. Please."

He looked up at her from between her thighs, his thumbs running circles all the way up. "You don't want this?"

Hermione reached to cup the side of his face. There was such conflict in her gaze, Draco was sure she was going to draw the line there. He could not blame her if that was her choice; he had no recollection of having sex with her the first time, only the angry uproar that came after. He did not know (even if he had an indestructible ego) if their previous and only experience together had been impeccable, making her want him just as he wanted her at that very second.

"I do," she murmured, "I do want this. I want _you_ , Draco. It's just...The last time I allowed myself to be vulnerable with someone, he broke my heart."

"I'm not going to break your heart, Hermione."

Tears pooled in her brown eyes, her fingers on Draco's jaw trembling as she whispered, "What if I break yours?"

Draco rose from his knees, taking a seat beside her on the wrinkled sheets caused by her previously quivering body. He took her hands into his.

"He doesn't get to blacken your heart, Hermione," he said with a careful voice. "He doesn't get to make you afraid of...of _us_. He doesn't get to make you hate yourself."

Hermione took a deep breath. "What are we?"

"Husband and wife," Draco told her, but the reply, even to his own ears, sounded too light to actually define the impact of who they were— _what_ they were.

They were old enemies by intolerance.

They were strangers by choice.

They were hesitant acquaintances by others.

They were husband and wife by accident.

Now none of it applied to them.

Perhaps it was something too complex and tangled to deal with when she was naked and flushed pink by an ecstasy he gave her, so Draco leaned in to distract her brilliant mind.

Yet, when he found himself stripped of his last layers of clothing, when he found himself deep inside of her, connecting the two like lost jigsaw pieces, Draco _knew_ what it was. He knew what it was the second his body was not just reacting to her naked glory, but the way her brown eyes glittered gold every time he moved, or how soft and devoted his name sounded when it left her perfect mouth.

When they both finally came undone, Draco thought she was asleep when he found himself thinking out loud. The words _tell me you're staying_ rung in the air.

Hermione turned over, searching for his silver eyes through the midnight haze of the bedroom. His voice had been too quiet, too unsure—everything Draco did not allow himself to be in the presence of others.

But she was not others.

She must have seen exactly that reflected off his gaze because she had to take in a sharp inhale to settle the rattling in her bones.

They were a week away from the expiration date of their trial run marriage.

Draco had been crossing out the seconds from the first day, but somewhere along the way of lowering defenses and having sex beneath satin sheets, he stopped counting.

They both had.

"What if I'm not pregnant?" she whispered to him, asking a sharp truth she hoped would not shatter the fragile atmosphere wrapping them in their own ethereal bubble.

Draco's hand was cold when he brushed stray, tangled curls away from her face. "Then you're not."

She sat up, her fingers reaching to grasp the hand he had on her. The satin sheet pooled down to her hips, the faint, white moonlight gave her exposed skin a glow.

"It's the only reason why we stayed married," she reminded him, an edge to her voice that matched the nervous glint in her eyes.

"Yeah, it was," he told her, "but it isn't the reason why I want to keep it that way."

Hermione held her breath this time.

"I never thought about having children," Draco said, a raw sincerity wrapping the words, "not after I took my life back from my parents. Partly because I didn't want to give them heirs to continue the name, but mostly because I knew I was never going to find someone willing to see past my fuck ups."

"You're more than your mistakes, Draco," Hermione said defensively, like a reflex, like she has spent lifetimes defending him from others and himself.

It almost made him grin.

"None of this is fucking normal," Draco continued, putting his other hand on top of their intertwined fingers, " _we_ aren't fucking normal. We are Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger—the world expected us to go to war, tear each other limb by limb, but instead here we are, naked and all shagged out. _Married_."

"Because we were drunk," she muttered, blinking away from his eyes to look at their hands.

There was something else she wanted to say, something at the tip of her tongue, something she had been wanting to say to him since brunch at the Burrow, her handprints on his expensive jumper and his request to meet her parents lingering in the air, but the words did not come out.

"My mother always said getting blackout drunk was never going to bring me anything good, but she was wrong. It got me you, Hermione," Draco said. "I know I didn't want it then, but I want it now. I want _us_ now. Do you?"

The uncertainty was back in his words when he asked that question. It made her look back at him again—to see that vulnerability he was allowing her to witness as the days passed them by. She knew people were supposed to look at these wounds and see tragedy, but all Hermione saw in Draco's scars was beauty. The same she saw in her patients. The same she saw in the mirror. Because, yes, their skin was torn and marked, burned and stitched, inside and out, but they were _real_.

They were alive despite all odds.

Hermione moved her hand to cup his sharp jaw, looking him deep in the eye to say, "Yes. I'll stay."

When the sun broke past the dark blue and grey clouds, bringing rare sunlight to the cold British landscape, Draco and Hermione were forming patterns on each other's skin, leaving more fingerprints for archeologists to find, like fossilized proof that they had been there, with each other, connected as one.

It was dangerous how easily Hermione forgot a world existed outside of the four walls that echoed hers and Draco's sounds of delight, of want, of worship. In the back of her perfectionist brain she knew she had responsibilities to attend to, but somehow she trusted those would work themselves out. She trusted the world could be good and right for a few hours without her, all so she could become an expert on Draco Malfoy.

Draco had long given up the pretense that anything came before Hermione—he knew that the days he was without her, back when he thought he had lost her to his arsehole tendencies. If he had her right there, pressed against him, his silver eyes locking in on her brown from his place above her, or his hands on her waist, looking up at her with such strange wonder and devotion, then he would take advantage of every second she was only his.

"Ignore it," he commanded in her ear before biting at the lobe, the moment of distraction leaving her glittering gaze as the Floo Network signaled yet another caller. "It's only us," he said as he moved harder against her.

The sting on his back caused by her nails told him she would comply.

Eventually Life decided that the world did not stop spinning in its axis because Draco and Hermione wanted to devour one another, explore every line and curve and dip, and memorize the sound of their beating hearts as they reached for stars. People existed outside of their bedroom that were carefully weaved in their lives, demanding to be a part of a world that could not only include a population of two (even if they so wished).

"You are both so utterly disgusting," Pansy said to them as she threw them old, discarded clothes. "It smells like sex and feelings in here. I can vomit."

"I'll vomit at the mere sight of you if you don't piss off, Pansy," Draco warned her with a snarl, even though Hermione was slipping on a t-shirt over her after having pulled on underwear, too. "I don't care what fucking crisis you happen to be in right now."

Pansy ignored him with a huff as she kicked aside an old tray of food, scattering berries on the expensive, plush carpet. "Seamus and Lavender got engaged last night. We are going to Lux to celebrate the occasion—well, to mourn Seamus' loss of freedom to that nutter."

"Who the fuck is Seamus and Lavender?" Draco asked. "And why the hell are you taking over my club again, Parkinson? I told you, just because your family owns two percent of petty shares does not mean you get monopoly over it. It is _my_ club."

Hermione managed to elbow him roughly before getting up from their bed. She had a grin despite her previous annoyance. "This is amazing news. I'm so happy for them."

"Be happy for me," said Pansy to Hermione. "I won't be charged with murder now that Brown has successfully sunk her claws in Seamus."

"Lavender does not want Ron," Hermione said with a scoff, like she has been making the same remark for years. "I told you, mistletoe means nothing. If it did, I'd be concerned about Neville, too. They snogged twice because of it."

Pansy narrowed her eyes at Hermione, chin raised high, and a sharp smirk taking over her red lips. "Longbottom was on my list, too, Hermione. Who do you think made him and Hannah Abbot happen?"

Hermione laughed, giving Pansy a light shove, like two old friends sharing a joke, and for a moment Draco felt a surge of happiness he never thought mattered—having your friends and your significant other like each other. The impossibility of Pansy Parkinson and Hermione Granger was just as unlikely as their union, but there they were, grinning at each other like all those years of bad blood, name-calling, and hatred did not exist.

Draco saw the same impossibility when he and Hermione arrived at Lux later that evening. A circle of their old classmates was formed in his largest V.I.P booth, rounds of shoots, tall, full bottle of liquor, and ice buckets of champagne and wine in the middle of them. He could accuse the neon lights ricocheting off every centimeter for blurring his vision, distorting all faces until he could not recognize anyone, but it was them. Draco could pick apart every single person in that circle.

He saw Pansy sat on Weasley's lap, arms around his neck, his around her waist, murmuring to each other like they had been apart for years. Potter and the Weaslette were there, too, sat side by side, sharing a laugh with Blaise and Luna, beer bottles in hand (all except for Lovegood, who for some reason had a cup of tea). There was Finnegan and Marcus Flint, starting a competition of shots that Thomas, George Weasley, Astoria, and Angelina Johnson were already betting on.

It existed, an alternate world where people were cured from darkness.

Or maybe it was the world Draco had already been on but refused to join. Maybe everyone had chosen to cure themselves while he clung on tighter to the darkness because he would never stop feeling guilty for his sins.

"I see Nott at the bar," Draco half-shouted at Hermione as she tried to maneuver them around dancing people to get to their friends. "I'll meet you there."

Hermione nodded, pressing a big kiss on his cheek before continuing her path.

"You love her, don't you?" Draco asked with a rough, mocking chuckle, adding a heavy smack on Theo's back when he approached the bar counter.

Theo turned away from Astoria and Dean Thomas looping arms to throw back their respective shots. He hunched his shoulders and took a long drink from his whiskey when her laughter pierced the blaring music and clawed at his ears.

"Yeah," Theo said, surprising Draco from the admission he was sure he would never hear. "I loved her since she was with Malfoy."

Draco raised a brow. "Mate, _I'm_ Mal—"

"Fuck it," Theo grunted loudly, downing the rest of his drink without a grimace. He banged the glass on the bar counter, signaling the server he wanted another. As a familiar (and because Draco was sat right next to him), the bartender flicked his wand and the glass refilled. "Truth is I loved her since before Malfoy. She just liked to be treated like shit so she chose him instead."

"He didn't treat her like shit," Draco defended, even if he knew that was a fucking lie.

Theo scoffed. "He shagged her mother while they were still dating. Plenty of other random women, too, but I don't really blame him. I don't blame her, either. She doesn't know any better. None of us do."

Draco was about to ask what he meant when Theo turned in angle to better look at him. His blue eyes were rimmed red, his pupils wide and hazy. There was more than whiskey in his system—it was a surprise he even managed to slur words together well enough.

Theo pulled back the sleeve of his charcoal-grey button-up, lifting his forearm to eye-level. Draco did not have to look to know the Dark Mark was burned on his skin. After all, Draco had been there when Nott Sr. forced his son to take the mark (after beating him blue and black when he had refused to serve by his own free-will).

"All of us think we are better than everyone else because we have loads of fucking money," Theo continued. "Because we have empires, mansions, and useless, priceless shit, but all that shiny is to distract from what's on the inside. We aren't better than anyone. We can barely stand the sight of our own bloody reflection when it's not covered in expensive clothes. I've seen Astoria cry, naked and scarred up, looking at the mirror like a monster has taken up host. She's been crying like that since our school years. She doesn't think she deserves anything good."

"She does," Draco said low and firm, his back tensing up at something he often ignored when he was dating Astoria. " _You_ can be that for her."

Theo shook his head, clutching his glass. "Can't give someone good when you're no good. So Tori and me just fuck. Each other or other people. Other people when fucking each other is too close to love and comfort and we _know_ we can't have that."

Draco looked over his shoulder, his eyes automatically finding Hermione in the gathered group of old school friends and enemies. She was rolling her eyes, righteous and smug, as Pansy demanded a rematch over a round of empty shot glasses.

He used to think that way. He used to feel as undeserving, as fucked up, as abominable as Theo did now.

Then Hermione came.

Draco wasn't good at motivating anyone (unless it was to do stupid, reckless shit), but he thought his friend deserved it. Theo had always been more of a hothead, more carefree and crude than Blaise and Draco, but he was masking more abuse than either of them.

"I thought my mate found it," Theo said before Draco could find the words to encourage him to _really_ go after Astoria. "By accident and all that shit, but I thought Malfoy found a way out of all this darkness. You might have read it in the papers, he married Hermione Granger. Fucking _Granger_. He was pissed at first, but he started to fancy her. Really fancy her. But it turns out it's all just fucking bullshit. A laugh between friends to settle an old score."

Draco had barely touched his glass to his lips when he stilled. He felt a cold, sharp current surge up his spine.

"What are you talking about, Nott?"

Theo shrugged, resting his cheek on the counter of the bar, letting out a loud yawn like he could find some rest in the dim night club with blaring music and hot, sweaty, lust-filled people all around. "Heard it from Tori and her friends this morning. Granger was helping Flint—"

"Marcus?"

"Nope," said Theo, frowning when Draco gripped his shoulder. "Jenna Flint. She works at St. Mungo's with Granger. Told her how Malfoy shagged her then had her arrested. I tried to Floo Call him, but he never answered. Poor bastard."

"Who the fuck is Jenna Fl—?" Draco stopped himself.

The memory was resurfacing; a hysterical, naked woman throwing things at him when he told her she needed to leave after she wanted to prolong her stay like Draco and her were more than a one night stand. He had called Blaise for some Magical Law Enforcement assistance (to have her _removed_ from his property). He never thought once about her again.

Because he ended up married to Hermione the next day.

Draco looked down to the golden band around his ring finger.

He had tried to take it off the second Hermione told him they had ended up husband and wife after a drunken night. It was Ministry policy—magical fucking tie that so long as the marriage was valid and accepted by the Ministry, the rings would not be able to be removed unless the same official who conducted the marriage did the counter spell, ultimately ending the contract.

Draco had almost ripped off his own finger in a futile attempt of getting rid of the ring (of what it meant), he never thought to hex it off.

He looked away from a sleeping Theo and back over his shoulder where Hermione was. She was mid laugh when she caught his eye. She smiled so beautifully at him, so full of warmth and adoration, Draco felt his heart pick up in rhythm.

When she returned her attention to the people around her, Draco looked at his hand. The gold in the ring was bright, sending out its own light. It was the representation of a solid, unbreakable union he had been given by Hermione.

He brought his hand up to the counter, laying it flat as he focused silver eyes on the ring. He felt his magic breathe in his blood, stirring awake for the wandless spell he was about to use.

" _Finite_ _Incantatem_."

The ring slid off, clinking against the side of his glass of whiskey.


	13. A Perfect Plan

Despite a youth covered in blood, bruises, and battle, it was a man made of pretty words and gentle hands that ultimately broke Hermione Granger down.

She thought herself above that doe-eyed, daydreaming nonsense, but she had not been any better than all those people she regarded as fanciful and silly (idiots, really) who allowed their lives to be drenched in glitter and color, as if all of that could fix or alter their actual grey and grim realities.

If Hermione looked back at it now—in her current shattered state of existing—she would say she clung onto Finn Conrad the same way he had clung onto her: like a lifeline.

He had let her gather him in her arms, this stranger in bright-colored robes who whispered reassurances in his ear that his little girl would live, that he would see her again, that he would get to hear her laughter again. In turn, she let him gather her in his strong arms when her nights were lonely and cold, this stranger with bright blue eyes who whispered reassurances in her ear that she was worth loving, that she would never be alone because she had him, because she could have a family of her own with _them_.

If Hermione looked back at it then—in her previous wonderstruck state of existing—she would say she looked at Finn Conrad the same way he had looked at her: like love at first (proper) sight.

The spark had not shot up like a guiding light the second she had to hold Finn back so other Healers could race little Lottie straight to surgery as he raged and shattered into pieces, punching his knuckles against anything that could break his bones as he cried himself into devastation. It was after, after a Calming Draught and hours of surgery, that Hermione had sat beside him and said, "Will you tell me about Charlotte?"

Finn did not move red, dead eyes from his cup of cold tea. "Lottie," he muttered in a voice so defeated and raw, "she likes to be called Lottie."

"Will you tell me about Lottie, please?"

It took a few more minutes of silence for Finn to find his words.

"I didn't want her at first," he mumbled, a fresh wave of tears down his blotchy, red cheeks. "Her mother and me, we knew shit about responsibility or how to stay in one place for too long, let alone how to stay with one another for too long. We tried making it work so many times, a baby wasn't going to fix it, but she wanted to keep it. I was resentful of her and the baby, but once Lottie was born, once I saw her, all pink and holding onto my thumb, it was all gone. All I felt was a love I never thought I could ever feel."

Hermione watched his fingers tremble over his cup.

"I'm not the best parent, either. I spoil her rotten. There isn't anything I won't give my baby girl. I filled up a room with dolls, books, paints, and magic just for her. People told me she'd turn out like those horrid kids screeching at the shop, the kind you wish their parents would leave locked up at home because they're a nightmare, but not my Lottie. The more I gave her, the more she had to give to others. I bought her a new doll once and she gave it her nan because it reminded her of one from her youth. I gave her stars in a jar and she gave it to a sad little muggle boy whose family couldn't afford to send him to camp that summer. I gave her a sickle for sweets in Hogsmeade and she gave it to a beggar woman outside the Hogs Head because she needed it more."

Hermione knew all about correct and approved protocols when dealing with a patient's loved ones, but in that second she did not think reused phrases of St. Mungo's survival rate or revolutionary modern remedies would be enough. So she reached over, taking the cup from his loose grip to set aside, and engulfed his shaking hands with her own. He turned to her with those broken blue eyes, and it was then that she knew she would do anything in her power to seem them light up like the brightest of sapphires.

She had asked him once when he fell in love with her, once upon a daydream (treacherous nightmare) when they were wrapped up in her purple, warm sheets, her naked body resting over his as they both climbed back down from pleasurable heights.

Finn lazily traced his fingertips over her back when he said, "When you took that awful cup of tea away from me."

Hermione bit into his shoulder, earning a loud chuckle and a light swat to her bum from him. "I made that tea."

"And I _still_ love you despite your horrid tea-making capabilities, sweetheart," he teased. "It's about time you've accepted that even the great Hermione Granger has a few flaws."

She raised her head from his chest, frowning in that scolding manner that was all hers, but her brown eyes still glittered gold.

Finn leaned forward, pressing a kiss at the tip of her nose, letting out another laugh before it faded and something solemn filled Hermione's bedroom. "I felt your compassion that very first night, Hermione. You stayed with me well into the next day. It fascinated me. You even kissed Lottie on the cheek like nothing was wrong with her, like she wasn't—"

" _Nothing_ is wrong with her," Hermione reminded firmly.

"Her own mother couldn't bring herself to see her," Finn then said, his hand sliding up from her back to cup the side of her face, "but you were there from the first day when she didn't look like my little girl. And you're here now, when she's on her way to looking like she used to."

Hermione had been too caught up in their bliss and his pretty words to realize then that Finn never really said when he had fallen in love with her.

Hermione had been too caught up in their bliss and his pretty words to realize then there were a lot of things Finn never really said.

Starting with the fact that he was married.

"I remember something today, 'Mione," little Lottie had said as she sat perfectly still at the end of her hospital bed.

Hermione waved her wand to make fade the x-ray of Lottie's chest, writing a few notes down on her slow (but sure) progress.

"And what's that, darling?" said Healer Flint as she strolled in through the ward's doors, a grin already on her crimson lips. "That I'm actually your favorite Healer in this whole hospital, but only pretend to like Granger because she bribes you with cookies?"

Lottie giggled.

"I don't bribe her, Jenna," Hermione countered with a roll of her eyes.

"Really?" she asked with a scoff, walking over to Lottie as she pulled out a vial with a dose of her daily medicine from her bright (and fitted) robes pocket. "All right, darling, time to drink up. I brewed a batch that tastes like Bertie Bott's."

Lottie made a displeased face.

"She somehow remembers all her candy," Jenn pointed out with a laugh. "There has to be a scientific explanation to that, don't you think, Granger?"

"Ninety-nine percent of these children remember their sweet-tooth and the other percent are the rare exception of not liking candy," Hermione said with an all-knowing tone that caused Jenn to mimic her, making Lottie laugh again. "The accurate scientific question to pose would be—"

"Oh, Salazar, I should have known better than to rile you up," Jenna interrupted her before turning back to Lottie. "Here, drink up before she makes me start brewing you a dose that tastes like broccoli."

The little girl did not have to be told twice.

"You making flavored medicine for the children is bribing," Hermione commented as Lottie smacked her injured lips together, trying to guess the flavor of her medicine. "They ask for Healer Flint to read to them more so than me, and I actually _know_ how to read."

Jenna laughed at Hermione's tamed comeback, making the other smile, too. "Well, I do different voices when I read and really get into character." Then taking a step closer to her, she added in a whisper, "Besides, I'm not the one fucking her father. If you want to play stepmother, I guess you have to earn points in your favor somehow."

Hermione's eyes grew wide in outrage. "Jenna!"

Jenna snorted at her panic, both of them glancing back at Lottie still attempting to decipher her medicine. "Oh, get that look off your face, Hermione. You and Finn have been dating for ages, _of course_ you're going to get married." She raised a perfectly manicured hand when the latter started sputtering, interrupting her with, "You love this little girl like she's your own. I've seen you love so many of these kids the same way, Hermione, the only difference now is that you can claim her as your own."

"She doesn't know about Finn and I yet," Hermione reminded. "And what if she doesn't want me in her family? She had a life before this. She has a—"

" _Earwax!_ " Lottie exclaimed as she pulled her finger out of her undamaged, left ear.

Jenna laughed as Hermione said in that famous tone of hers, "Tell me you didn't lick your finger, Charlotte Conrad?"

Lottie grinned despite the reprimand. "That makes two things I remember today, 'Mione!"

"The second being that _I'm_ your favorite, right?" Jenna asked again.

"No, silly," Lottie laughed, shaking her head, "I remember my mummy."

Jenna dropped her own grin as Hermione stilled beside her. "Oh. Is that so? You remember her name? How she looks?"

"Her name's Phillipa. Phillipa Vega-Conrad," Lottie told them enthusiastically before sadness clouded her happy features. Her blue eyes glittered with tears. It made Hermione want to rush over until she said, "I remember how I got like this. I was so angry they left me. My hands started shaking and...all I wanted was to make them come home, but then there was a flame and..."

"You don't have to talk about it, Lottie," Hermione told her, walking over to her now when tears fell down her burnt cheeks. "Sometimes recalling traumatic events doesn't heal the way we want it to. Not right away at least."

Lottie let Hermione brush away her tears with a kind hand, but more still came down when she said, "Mummy and Daddy just wanted a nice evening. _Abuela_ said they were going on a date to celebrate their anniversary, but I wanted to go. They were going into town, to a cinema, and I wanted—"

"Anniversary?" Jenna was the one to ask. All of her teasing smirks were gone when she looked over at Hermione as she grew paler the more Lottie spoke. "Darling...your parents live together?"

Lottie nodded. "We live with Abuelita, too. She takes care of me when Mummy and Daddy work or go out on dates." A seriousness fogged her blue eyes—blue eyes she turned to Hermione expectantly. "Where's my mummy, 'Mione? Why hasn't she come to visit me? Where's my mummy? I want my mummy!"

A week later Mr. and Mrs. Conrad showed up to visit their child and Hermione hid in Luna's spare bedroom until there were no more tears left to cry (there was still seven seas of tears caught inside of her).

"It's not your fault—"

Hermione turned from the crystal window looking out the small playground to find Cho standing behind her, arms crossed over her chest, and her austere expression perfectly in place.

"It's not your fault," Cho repeated, something Hermione never expected to hear from her Head Healer—a Head Healer who marvelled at the respectability St. Mungo's kept under her diligent supervision and hard work. A respectability Hermione had tainted by involving herself with a married man.

Yet the words had left Cho's mouth, no look of sympathy on her face, but the sentiment was there even when she continued with, "You couldn't have known then."

"It still didn't make it still doesn't," Hermione returned in an murmur. "I could've ruined Lottie's family. After everything that poor girl has gone through, I had no right to—"

"For a year I watched you love that girl like she was your own flesh and blood," Cho cut across her constant lament, sharply looking toward the window that showed the Conrad family sat on the grass, entertaining the girl as she served tea in bright pink, plastic cups. "Charlotte came here with eighty-three percent of her body burned, suffering severe respiratory problems and memory loss as consequences of her accident, and with a thirty-one percent chance of survival. You saw her father destroyed, dying alongside her, and you made a promise to keep both alive. And you _did_ , Hermione. You took that eighty-three percent and reduced it to seventy-six—and counting. At your care, she recovered her memories. At your care, she is slowly but surely breathing without problems. You turned that thirty-one percent chance of survival into a bright and long future. Do not allow these achievements to be clouded by a lie her father fed you."

Hermione wiped new (but always the same) tears from her cheeks with a harsh hand. "It was _love_ , Cho. I fell in love," she said with an anger that was a little louder than her heartbreak. "They tell us not to invest more than our medical expertise in our patients because they are not ours to keep and nurture, but I forgot that. I _wanted_ them to be mine. I wanted to be _theirs_. He made me believe I was. And the horrible thing is, even after all this time, I still wish I could be."

Cho let her hands fall to her sides, her shoulders straightening out after she did, making her look regal and whole. "Did Padma ever tell you I almost married Zacharias Smith?" She did not wait for Hermione to answer a rhetorical question (Padma told everyone almost anything). "At the beginning of our relationship, he showed me a love alike Cedric's. It was insane to compare the two, I know, but I believed he was my second chance at that fairytale ending we all want to have. Eventually, his love turned to poison. His compliments and 'I love you's turned to emotional abuse. His threats turned to actual violence. I stayed with him for three years because I believed when he said no one else was ever going to love me. But that was a lie, too."

For a flicker of time Hermione saw Cho's composure crack, but when another round of tears pushed their way out of her tired eyes, the glint was gone.

Padma had never revealed what her wife had suffered at the hands of Zacharias Smith, not even when others had made snide remarks about Cho even before they started dating.

Now Hermione knew why she had hardened herself like steel.

"Our heartache and disappointments make us believe we are never going to find happiness alike the one we lost, but I promise you, Hermione, we _do_. Life goes on. Your broken heart mends and love comes back in looking for another chance. Finn Conrad was not your last chance at a great love, just like Zacharias was not mine."

Hermione dared herself to look back over her shoulder and into that glass. She could see Lottie on her mother's lap now, grinning wide as her growing, blonde hair was being carefully braided behind her unblemished ear. She could hear the echo of Finn's baritone, but the words muffled together.

"What if I never forgive myself for what I've done?"

The question had been meant for herself, but Cho still answered: "Then you are not the clever woman this world believes you to be."

"She's right," Ginny had said with an exasperated sigh, her and Pansy sat across from her desk as Hermione continued to pour herself over paperwork in hopes to distract her mind from the tsunami of self-loathing that was always threatening to drown her.

Pansy scoffed loud enough for the sound to echo around the office littered with overstock bookcases. "Mind you, Gin never thinks Chang—"

"Patil-Chang," Hermione corrected.

"—is right about anything. On the account that she hates her and all."

"I don't _hate_ her," Ginny defended with an eye roll. "We're not in school anymore. We're strong, healthy women that don't need to be pitted against each other because society already does that enough for us. Even if she did snog Harry twice last year."

Hermione looked up from her paperwork, her frown already forming. "Cho was already married to Padma then, Ginny. Besides, it was mistletoe. If you want to be angry at anyone for that, be angry at _Blaise_. He hung it up in hopes he would catch Luna under it."

"He only caught Daphne Greengrass," Pansy said with a dark smirk pulling at her red lips. "And a little STI from it, too."

"The point _is_ ," Ginny added as she slapped Pansy on the shoulder for the indiscretion, "you have to stop tormenting yourself, 'Mione. It's been almost a year. You can't let that dickhead continue to make you feel like a horrible person when _he's_ the one who took advantage of your kindness. For fuck sakes, his daughter was dying from first-degree burns, but he still managed to lie about his marital status when he saw the beautiful Healer that would be taking care of his child."

"I know you don't approve of dark magic, but I've got a family spellbook heirloom with the most stunning genital-rearranging hexes you've ever seen," Pansy supplied helpfully. "My offer to cast it still stands."

"As well as my arse-kicking," Ginny said with a grin.

Hermione let out the same exasperated sigh Ginny had previously, setting her quil down. "All right," she said in a defeated tone, "I'll go to lunch with you two, but _please_ drop the threats of violence. It's starting to make me question our friendship."

Before her friends could laugh in triumph from cornering her into agreeing to leave her little crook of isolation, the three of them were startled when the door of Hermione's office was slammed open.

Hermione blinked wildly at the abrupt intrusion. "For goodness sake, what happened to you?"

There, in a tattered, wrinkled gold dress, black heels in one hand, wand in the other, black hair knotted and coming undone at the top of her head, blotched red lipstick, smeared eyeliner, and streaks of dry, black tears down her cheeks was Jenna Flint.

"You look like shit, Flint," Pansy pointed out with overwhelming amusement. "Another trashy night, I reckon."

" _Jenna_ ," Hermione started in her parenting tone. "Cho is absolutely livid. The board is here and they are particularly interested in our ward since news of that developmental potion curing—"

"To hell with the fucking board!" Jenna hissed, slamming the door closed with just as much force as she had used to open it. "I spent the last six hours detained in some cold, holding cell with criminals. Actual fucking _criminals_ , Hermione! One of which I am positive was still covered in the blood of their victim!"

Standing from her seat, Hermione hurried in the direction of her fellow Healer and friend. "Merlin, what happened?" she demanded as she gripped Jenna's jaw, tilting her head back to inspect every centimeter of her dirty face.

When she was about to pull her wand out for further inspection, Jenna pushed it down. "I'm _fine_ ," she ground out. "I slept with Malfoy—"

"How you look right now is usually how you _feel_ when you shag Malfoy," Pansy commented with another laugh. "Just take a shower and shag someone else. You'll give over it. I did."

"That areshole had me _arrested_ soon as I woke up!" screamed Jenna, throwing her black heels across Hermione's office. "Zabini answered the Floo Call! Half of my family's friends work at the Ministry and they saw me being dragged in! For fuck sakes, Marcus had to bail me out for breaking and entering _and_ disorderly conduct!"

Hermione's brown eyes filled with dread. "If the hospital's board finds out—"

"Forget St. Mungo's! I'm going to murder Draco Malfoy!"

Pansy scoffed. "As lovely as that would be, you _know_ Malfoy is notorious for treating women like rubbish. Salazar, I was his girlfriend and he cheated on me with Japanese triplets. Let's not forget how he fucked Mrs. Greengrass when he was dating Astoria. Did you really think _you'd_ be different?"

Jenna's fury decreased slightly while Ginny said, "That explains Daphne Greengrass' article, _Draco Malfoy: Scum of the Earth_."

"And the retraction I had to print the next day much to Daphne's outrage, _Draco Malfoy: Playboy and Philanthropist_ ," Pansy reminded.

"Fuck off," Jenna said as she moved to Hermione's cabinet, taking out a wet-wipe. "Everyone knows Malfoy isn't capable of love. I just had a few too many drinks last night and he was the closest bloke around me. Well, him and Goyle, but he's married and I have morals."

Pansy, Ginny, and Hermione grimaced.

"Clearly what you need to have is _standards—_ "

"But I still didn't deserve to be treated the way I was," Jenna ignored Ginny's snark as she wiped away her smeared makeup (a tear that no one commented on, too). "You give these aresholes everything—your body, your heart, and your mind, and they still have the fucking nerve to treat you like you hadn't just presented them with treasure. Because we _are_ —we are fucking treasure, and these idiots can't keep making us believe we aren't because they can't value what's in front of them. They don't get to break you, humiliate you, and just move on with their lives. They just _don't_."

Hermione looked down at her cold, trembling hands. At the hands that had touched Finn Conrad. At the hands he had left empty.

With the constant knot in her throat and tears swimming in her eyes, Hermione said, "Then don't let him. Don't let Malfoy get away with humiliating you. Teach him he is not unbreakable."

At once, Jenna, Pansy, and Ginny turned to Hermione with a shared look she later identified as genius ( _revenge_ ).

A practical joke she had not signed up for.

"I can't," Hermione stressed for the millionth time as Jenna threw a very revealing outfit at her as Pansy and Ginny tried to tame her hair.

"Of course you can," Jenna told her for the millionth time as she then looked over Hermione's small selection of heels.

"I meant like punch him on the face like I have multiple times," Hermione explained, "not have me seduce him—something I'd like to point out only you and Pansy have done."

"Poor judgement and lots of whiskey," Jenna brushed her statement off just as she let out a sound of approval at a pair of red pumps she found in Hermione's closet.

"I drank a lot back then, too. Oh, and I didn't know better men existed," Pansy pointed out when she tugged harshly at a section of Hermione's hair. "Until Ron came along, that is."

Ginny snorted. "You think my brother is better? You sure you're still not drinking, Parkinson?"

"Here," Jenna's right hand offered her a bottle of wine Hermione thought was still in her fridge just as her left handed her the red heels. "Drink this and wear these. You'll do great."

"I won't," Hermione stressed for the millionth time as Jenna dropped the wards of Malfoy's flat as Pansy and Ginny dragged his piss-drunk, passed-out body in.

"Of course you will," Jenna told her for the millionth time as she directed them to his bedroom.

Ginny dropped Malfoy onto his bed, gagging and wiping at her arms from having had touched him. "You know what, I'm with 'Mione on this. Maybe this is too far."

"Are you saying Malfoy doesn't deserve to be taught a lesson?" Pansy questioned.

"I'm saying this is _Draco fucking Malfoy_. We're on the same page of how horrid he is, right? Now let me remind you we are putting _Hermione_ in front of his backlash. She's been through enough bullshit. She doesn't need it from this git."

Pansy and Jenna both faltered.

Hermione knew they would never pressure her into continuing with a scheme she had not wanted to be a part of in the first place.

Did she think Jenna deserved better? Of course. The woman was a little wild, but she was a person owed respect.

Did she think Malfoy was an arsehole? Of course. The man had made that his legacy with his carelessness and debauchery.

Still...

There was a moment—a sliver of a moment—when Hermione was playing the part, when Pansy was actually enjoying her hen party, when Ginny and Jenna were no longer in the vicinity, that she saw something warm flash in Malfoy's icy, silver eyes.

It could have been all the alcohol (it had to be), but she thought maybe there was more to him. She thought maybe there was remorse. A remorse hidden behind all his snide remarks and disdain.

Hermione did not know what she was going to try to prove, but she took off her left heel, throwing it across his bedroom before the right followed.

"You can't be seen in the next few weeks, Jenna," she said. "If Malfoy sees you, he'll know all of this is a trick."

Pansy looked warily at Ginny while Jenna beamed.

"Hermione," Ginny's gaze narrowed as her best friend pointed her wand at Malfoy. "Think about it, okay? You're going to get into bed with _Malfoy_."

"I'm not," she said. "Not really, at least. I'll just implant false memories of it. My magic is impeccable. He won't know they aren't his."

"And," Jenna added as she walked over to Malfoy's sleeping figure, grabbing for his hand to slide on a ring before she threw an identical one in Hermione's direction, "he'll never think of hexing off the ring. It's the perfect plan."

It was.

Until Hermione discovered there was more to Draco.

Until she discovered his remorse.

It was.

Until Hermione's broken heart started to mend together with his name on the stitching.

Until Hermione only ever wanted to exist in his arms.

It was.

Until in that same night club he hexed off a wedding ring that could only be legally removed by the magic of the Ministry Official who had married them (had it been a real marriage to begin with).

Until it was all he left behind.


End file.
